


These Shackles You Forged

by Enfilade



Series: Chains of Grindcore [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alcohol, Bad Ending, Coercion, Drug Abuse, Drunkenness, Emetophobia, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Gaslighting, Intoxication, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Mindfuck, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Post-Prison, Prison, Psychological Torture, Sex Toys, Sexual Coercion, Thoughts About Alt Mode Sex, Thoughts About Doctor/Patient, Thoughts about Gangbang, Thoughts about Rough Sex, Torture, Trauma, Victim Blaming, Voyeurism, Warden/Prisoner, mentioned Megatron/Tarn, not nice, polyamorous Megatron
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 46
Words: 64,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7031566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst thing about Grindcore is the prison you make for yourself...brick by brick.  And Tarn isn't above supplying the mortar to his personal engineer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Life Is Like A Box Of Chocolates

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who have read my previous fics: this isn’t at all like On My Dark and Lonely Side, Mend What Is Broken, or Contingency Procedures, and if you decide that this particular story isn’t something you want to read, I will not be hurt, offended, or disappointed. I will be happy that you've made a decision that's in your best interests and exercised your freedom to choose what kind of content you wish to engage with. I know damn well this story goes somewhere terrible, and I’ve flagged the hell out of this story so people who don’t wish to read this kind of content can avoid it. 
> 
> Detailed discussion of consent issues below for those of you who need more detail before deciding if you want to read this story.
> 
> Skids honestly believes and is made to think that he’s choosing to engage in various acts of his own volition, but the surrounding events have been deliberately set up in such a way that consent is impossible. The power dynamic between warden and prisoner is plenty questionable enough, and that’s before Tarn starts manipulating Skids’s environment with the intent to cause specific emotional reactions and mislead Skids as to the true nature of what’s happening to him and around him. 
> 
> In short, even though Skids asks for intimacy, this scenario is not consensual.
> 
> If you are here to see what intense manipulation can look like, to the extent where a victim sincerely believes himself to be the initiator and guilty party, you are in the right place. If you are looking for fics about love, affection, romance, healthy relationships, or anything that is desirable in real life, this story is not what you’re looking for.

_Life is Like a Box of Chocolates_

The Commandant of Grindcore smiled under his mask as he took the lid off the box of jellied candies and artfully set the box on the corner of his desk.

He plucked out four of the sixteen sweets within: two from the side furthest from the desk, one from the middle, one from the far row. He studied the arrangement to see if it looked sufficiently thoughtless. After a moment’s pause he removed a fifth sweet from the end of the third row.

Perfect. Enough missing to give the illusion that the box had been casually nibbled from; not so many missing that another absent sweet or two would be easily noticed. 

He curled his fingers over the five sweets in the palm of his hand and noticed a slight tremor of excitement.

Well. He’d been waiting some time to put this plan into action. First, he had to wait for an official visitor to Grindcore…and hadn’t it been just his luck that the first such visitor had been Colossus. He’d been tempted, so very tempted, to launch the plan right away, but in the end he absolutely couldn’t _bear_ the idea of anyone, even a prisoner like Skids, thinking that he’d had an intimate affair with a garish brute like Colossus. So he had swallowed down his impatience and waited and, well, yes, he’d sent an invitation to Thunderwing.

Mercifully, Thunderwing had accepted, and the Commandant had sent Thunderwing on his way with a generous helping of _sentio metallico_ for use in his experiments. The Commandant was almost sorry to see him go. It had been pleasant to spend some time with another Decepticon of equivalent rank whose aesthetic tastes were similar to his own. Had Thunderwing initiated an actual affair, the Commandant might not have said no. It might have been an interesting experience, to take a lover who was the Commandant’s military and social equal. He’d never had such a pairing before.

But in the end, all the Commandant really needed was the _illusion_ of an affair, and now that Thunderwing had departed, he was eager to set his plan in motion.

 _Patience_ , he reminded himself. Good things were spoiled by rushing.

He admired the box of tempting treats. Yes, now was the time to savour every step of the plan. Delicious anticipation made eventual victory that much sweeter.

And he mustn’t _spoil_ it by giving his new plaything even so much as a _hint_ that anything unusual was afoot.

Skids had spent the last two and a half days in solitary. He’d shown off his little Autobot engineer to Thunderwing shortly after his arrival, and then he’d locked the door and left Skids there, all alone in his cell. Of course he was alone. The Commandant dared not let Skids loose in the general population—they would destroy him. Skids had been his pet long enough for the rumors to make their way around Grindcore about just _how_ the teleporter’s engines had gotten fixed and just _why_ nothing in the officers’ quarters stayed broken for long. The prisoners didn’t even need to know what the “teleporter” actually _did_. To their minds, Skids was colluding with the enemy, and they would kill him if they could.

Poor Skids. To find out what the teleporter was truly for…and then to find out that his fellow prisoners didn’t want to listen to his warnings. He’d tried to tell them and they’d nearly torn him apart before the Commandant had executed a well-timed rescue and taken Skids to a cozy little cell in solitary confinement.

Skids had wept into his soft berth that night, curled up in a miserable ball under a plush chamois blanket, and the Commandant had smiled, as all had gone according to plan.

Ah, and weeks ago the Commandant had taken to giving Skids his fuel rations only during breaks from work. It had been nice to sit down and share some fuel with his little pet, but he’d had an ulterior motive even then. By now, Skids would be so used to associating work breaks with fueling time that it would not surprise him in the slightest that no work meant no fuel. 

Right now, Skids was hungry, and bored, and feeling as though he’d been completely forgotten due to Thunderwing’s visit. The lack of stimulation for his superlearner’s mind must be hellish, the Commandant thought. Perhaps it would even be enough to distract from his achingly empty fuel tanks. 

_Which meant_ , the Commandant thought, his smile under his mask growing, _that Skids is precisely where I want him_. 


	2. Hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuity Note: Throughout issues #48 and #49 Tarn is referred to as “The Commandant” during every scene in Grindcore. It’s my suspicion that he was not yet given the callsign “Tarn” or the leadership of the DJD at this point in time; the DJD might not even exist yet. To maintain continuity Tarn is referred to as The Commandant throughout this story.

Hunger

Skids curled up into a ball on his left side, tucking his knees to his chest, only to discover that the new position wasn’t any more comfortable than lying flat on his back had been. He flipped over to the right, conscious all the while that the more he moved, the more energy he used and the worse the ache in his empty fuel tank was going to become. But he couldn’t help it. He was just so _bored_. So mind-numbingly, spark-crushingly, excruciatingly _bored_. 

He’d calculated pi to a billion decimal places. He’d sung every song he knew, and then he’d sung them all again backwards. He’d thought up ten different weapons he could build with the components of the teleporter engines, and wasn’t that a bittersweet discovery—he could use _any_ of them to escape Grindcore, but there was no _point_ in escaping, not now that the Commandant had told the Autobots what Skids had done. As far as the Autobots were concerned, Skids was now a collaborator, if not a full-blown turncoat. They wouldn’t want him back.

A soft voice in the back of Skids’s mind reminded him that the Commandant might be lying.

The Commandant might not have told the Autobots at all. Even if he _had_ , he couldn’t psychically know what Optimus Prime would make of Skids’s crime. Prime was not the sort of person to pass judgment without even hearing Skids’s side of the story. Skids could explain to Prime how he’d been fooled. There were extenuating circumstances. And even if he was found guilty, could _any_ punishment that Prime would give him possibly be worse than Grindcore?

 _The Commandant could be lying_ , Skids told himself, but it didn’t help. Because all he could think of was the looks of fury in the optics of the other Autobot prisoners…the mechs he’d been trying to help. They’d accused him of trying to scare them when he’d told them the truth about the teleporter/smelting chamber, and then they’d set on him in earnest. _Traitor_ , they’d called him. _Con-lover_.

They would have killed him if the Commandant had not ordered Skyquake and Talon to pull him out of there. Even so, he’d spent the better part of two weeks in the medbay.

So even if the Commandant was lying, his words had a ring of emotional truth. In his spark, Skids could not believe the Autobots would take him back.

He had best make the most of his life here. It was likely the only life he’d have, from this point forward.

Still, it seemed unusual, to him, that the Commandant would forget about him for…he wasn’t sure how long, exactly, since they’d broken his chronometer, but judging by the footsteps in the hallway, there had been eight shift changes since he’d last seen the Commandant. That meant…over two and a half days without anyone speaking to him, and over three days without fuel.

Was the Commandant doing this to mess with him….to remind him how dependent he was? Or had he honestly been _forgotten_? What was worse…the Commandant doing this out of malice, or the possibility that his existence might have genuinely slipped the Commandant’s mind? 

How long would it take him to shut down from lack of fuel?

 _Longer than this_ , Skids thought. His fuel tanks throbbed with pain, and he wondered if Cybertronian resilience was a blessing or a curse.

_Come on, Commandant. Come take me to work. Come fuel me. You’re too smart to leave a mechanism like me all alone for days on end with nothing better to do than think of ways to build weapons out of the equipment you make me fix. Even if you know that I know I can’t escape from here. You also know that I’ve got very little left to lose._

Skids considered that thought. Maybe he _should_ build a gun. It would definitely get him killed, but before it did, he could take out the Commandant and maybe a few more Decepticons. That would go some way to atoning for what he’d done when he fixed the smelting chamber.

But the Commandant had already told him that if he were to die, there were ten other Decepticons who could take his place.

A realization occurred to him. _The Commandant might be lying. If you feel it’s futile to kill him, you won’t kill him. Maybe he’s counting on that._

Skids marvelled how easily he forgot that the Commandant might be lying. 

Maybe it was a sense of gratitude. The Commandant had, after all, saved his life when the other Autobot prisoners would have killed him. And the Commandant had changed his mind about letting Skids die in the smelting chamber.

_The smelting chamber._

_Don’t ever forget it._

_The Commandant is not a good person, and he is not your friend._

Memory soundly jogged, Skids settled down to endure the aching in his empty tanks and wait until…

“Skids?” 

The Commandant’s rich, deep, melodious voice echoed throughout the cell. Skids leapt up from his simple cot, hating the way his spark leapt in excitement as well.

He was hungry and bored. It had nothing to do with actually _wanting_ to see the Commandant. Skids looked up at the purple-masked figure on the other side of the narrow barred window in his cell’s door and waited impatiently as the door unlocked and swung open.

It occurred to Skids that the other Autobots in Grindcore preferred the safety of a door between themselves and the Commandant.

“I trust that Snare has been looking after you in my absence?” the Commandant said mildly as he stepped across the threshold.

Skids froze.

_Snare…?_

Had the Commandant told Snare to keep him fueled the last few days? Was his hunger and isolation all _Snare’s_ fault? Was this Snare’s retaliation for the way the Commandant kept making those subtle barbs claiming that Skids was a better worker, a more cheerful presence, an all-around preferable subordinate than Snare was? 

Skids felt a sudden flash of anger towards the Predator jet. “I haven’t seen Snare, or anyone else, in two and a half days,” Skids gritted.

The Commandant looked surprised. “Two and a half _days_? That long? I really don’t think…”

“Oh yes, that long.” Skids couldn’t resist the chance to show off his skills. “I counted eight shift changes. Eight. That’s three shift changes a day, and…you can do the math, sir.”

“ _Really_. Well then, it looks as though I’ll have to have a word with Snare. Don’t worry, I”ll be absolutely certain there aren’t any negative repercussions for you. Thank you for telling me this.”

“You’re very welcome, sir.” Skids felt smug. Snare was going to get what he had coming.

Then his abdomen rumbled. Very loudly.

“Oh dear,” the Commandant said. “You must be very hungry.”

Skids tried not to look too eager. He realized he probably wasn’t succeeding, but he didn’t care. Fuel!

“I’ll get you something to refuel with right…”

The commandant’s comm link sounded.

Skids gritted his teeth. This interruption, however brief, felt intolerable to his hunger-wracked frame. 

“Excuse me,” the Commandant said, and turned away, murmuring something unintelligible.

Waiting was agony. Skids tried not to listen—the Commandant’s conversation was none of his business. Then he changed his mind. As an Autobot, he should gather what intelligence he could. The Commandant’s comments were simple, unhelpful expressions of agreement and requests for more information. Skids stopped listening. After all, who would he ever share this knowledge with? The Autobots didn’t want him back.

By the Matrix, he was hungry. 

The Commandant’s conversation seemed to take an eternity, and when it finally ended, the Commandant turned back to him and spoke words that chilled Skids’s spark. “I’m so sorry,” the Commandant said. “An urgent matter requires my attention.”

Skids wanted to remind the Commandant about his fuel, but he was afraid to delay him. If he made the Commandant angry he might not get fueled today at all. He gritted his teeth, struggling not to double over from the pain in his empty tanks.

“I hope to be back within the next couple of hours…”

Skids groaned. How could he bear this agony that long?

“…but I will bring you back some fuel. In the meantime, I want you to busy yourself cleaning my office. Come.”


	3. Temptation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be it known that my new name is "Blackbeard the Smut Pirate,"  
> and  
> Be it known that what I do is "sail my shitty garbage scow of a ship around,"  
> and  
> Be it known that therefore I shall stink up the whole harbour with another chapter of this fic....

Temptation

Skids bit back a moan and followed along at the Commandant’s heels as the Decepticon led him the short distance from the cell to the Commandant’s office. There were three doors in between, none of which Skids had seen inside…until today. Skids discovered that the first door, the one beside his cell, was a closet. The Commandant opened the door, selected a broom and a duster, and handed them to Skids.

The Commandant read the dismay on Skids’s face, but to Skids, it seemed as though the Commandant thought Skids’s reaction was due to the nature of the assigned work rather than the depths of Skids’s hunger. The Commandant leaned closer as he ushered Skids through the door of his office and murmured, “I’m sorry, I know you’d prefer more of a challenge, but that is the nature of the work I need done, and surely it’s better than being back in the cell?”

It was. Skids nodded.

“Then you do your work and I will see you when I can return.”

Skids gripped his tools, looked around the office, and nodded. What else could he do?

The door closed. Skids heard the turn of the lock—the Commandant was locking him in. No surprise that the Commandant didn’t want him free to wander around Grindcore. It was more surprising that the Commandant trusted an Autobot alone in his office.

Unless the Commandant was so sure the Autobots wouldn’t take Skids back that he didn’t care what Skids saw in here. Or what conversations Skids overheard.

The thought was depressing.

Skids looked at the far wall, which usually held a series of husks hanging in chains. Skids had always thought they were tortured prisoners, but upon closer examination, he realized that every one of them looked like miners--old-style mining equipment, the kind of mechs who usually became Decepticons, and all of them were not only deceased but had probably been so for quite some time. Skids had always been afraid that one of them would someday online its optics and open its mouth in a silent cry of pain from a shattered vocalizer.

_Yes, you look at that and remember what kind of person the Commandant is. Remember the husks. Remember Quark._

Skids felt sickened when he remembered Quark. It was his fault that Quark had gone to the smelting chamber. And Quark had tried to warn him what the Commandant was like. Skids had been so sure that he could play the system. That he could trade his skills to the Commandant in exchange for some benefits for himself and mechs like Quark. 

Quark had been right.

It hurt to remember. Skids pushed Quark’s ghost out of his mind and decided to get to work. Keeping busy would help take his mind off his hunger and his awful memories. A little physical activity wouldn’t hurt if he was going to get fuel in a couple hours.

_The Commandant might be lying_ , whispered that little voice.

Still, Skids wouldn’t get anywhere by failing to do his assigned duty. He’d just make the Commandant angry and then there would definitely be no fuel for him.

Skids sighed as he began to dust the Commandant’s desk chair. The office wasn’t even that dirty—it would pass standard inspection the way it was. But the Commandant usually kept it immaculate, and after all, if the Commandant told Skids to do it, then Skids was going to do it.

Dully he wondered if he should’ve asked the Commandant to let some Autobot prisoners go in exchange for his continued services.

But now that the Autobots didn’t want him back, he had a lot less to bargain with. And besides, he had only the Commandant’s word that the image he’d shown him had truly been a current picture of fifty Grindcore prisoners liberated in the Manganese Mountains. 

And the Commandant might be lying.

Skids wasn’t sure what was worse—thinking about the past, thinking about his probable future, or thinking about fuel. He was so hungry, he could almost _smell_ energon. He wished his brain could settle on happy thoughts, but there was no happiness in Grindcore and Skids had exhausted all his neutral thoughts during his two and a half days of abandonment.

_Just concentrate on cleaning._

His fuel tanks rumbled again. He _swore_ he could smell fuel. 

Skids raised his head and looked around the office again. 

The Commandant kept decanters of vintage engex here in his office. Skids knew, because the Commandant had shared with him on several occasions. 

_Did the Commandant ask you in for a drink?_ Quark had snipped. Skids had thought he was joking. Skids didn’t realize that a few days later the Commandant would do exactly that, or that he, tired of the awful fuel he’d been given, would accept.

Where was the Commandant’s stash? Skids wasn’t exactly sure which cabinet he kept it in but…

Did he dare find it? Surely he could sneak a swallow or two before the Commandant returned? Just a little fuel to keep him going?

_No_ , Skids told himself sternly. Intoxicating engex on an empty fuel tank? As hungry as he was, he didn’t trust himself to stop after a swallow or two. He’d take too much, and the Commandant would return to find his prisoner overenergized and stumbling into things, or passed out on his floor. Skids knew better than to think the Commandant would fuel him after finding him like that.

_Stealing will just make your situation worse._

Then Skids’s gaze fell on the box laying casually at the edge of the Commandant’s desk.

Skids felt his throat constrict. This was where the tempting smell was coming from. A box of energon goodies, a box that had once contained sixteen. Five were gone. Eleven were left.

Would the Commandant notice if Skids took _just one_?

From the way the box of candies were positioned on the desktop—right in front of one of the guest chairs on the other side—it looked as though the Commandant expected visitors to help themselves. The temptation was almost more than Skids could bear. Static smeared his vision; his non-essential systems were shutting down to prolong his operations until such time as he could fuel.

_But I’m not a visitor. I’m a prisoner._

If Skids forgot that fact—if he became arrogant—he would be in for a world of pain. He was not entitled to a candy. Those were for guests, like Thunderwing.

_Does the Commandant really know how many Thunderwing ate?_

No. He could only have one if the Commandant offered him one.

_The Commandant’s not here. And you’re getting vision greyout from hunger._

Just one, then?

_There are probably cameras_ , Skids thought. _Surveillance equipment watching me._

But surveillance equipment could be defeated. Cameras were line-of-sight. Their view could be blocked. 

_Just one. Just one candy to keep me going until the Commandant comes back with fuel._

Skids dusted the other furniture in the room while he calculated how to do it. He wasn’t sure where the cameras were, but he had pretty good guesses about where he would place them in order to cover as much of the room as possible. He could lean over the desk with his duster in his right hand, blocking the view of the candy box with his body, and palm a sweet with his left hand. When he knelt down to dust the carved feet of the desk, he could put the candy into his mouth. If he moved naturally, the only way anyone would notice would be if they were purposefully observing the number of candies in the box, and if they did, well, Skids had a fallback position. The candies were laid out in such a way that any reasonable person would presume they were free for the taking, and Skids required fuel to do the job he’d been given.

_The Commandant doesn’t care about logical reasons_ , that soft voice in his head reminded him. _The Commandant will punish you if he wishes to, whether he has good reason or not._

Skids didn’t want to hear it. He was _hungry_. He was having trouble thinking rationally, what with the pain in his tanks and the tantalizing aroma of fuel _right there_ in front of him. And the worst of it was, the Commandant hadn’t even intended to torment him, but here he was, suffering more than he ever had in Grindcore. He’d been pulled from the smelting chamber before the pain became this sharp…

He couldn’t keep going like this. 

He found himself standing over the box of candy, staring longingly, and he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there.


	4. Theft

Theft

In the end Skids took two candies. He remembered having second thoughts even as he knelt down with the treats in his palm, wondering if maybe he’d been too greedy, but at that point it would look more suspicious on the camera to try to put one back. Quickly he popped both cubes into his mouth before he could change his mind.

Skids almost groaned out loud. They were unspeakably delicious: light, yet tart. They felt eminently satisfying as they slid down his throat.

He wondered if they would make his tanks feel emptier—a small taste of fuel on an empty tank could serve to sharpen rather than assuage hunger—but he was hungry enough to chance anything that might bring him relief. To his pleasure and surprise, the two cubes felt as though they bloomed inside him. It was amazing how such a small bit of nourishment could produce such a full, contented situation. They must be very rich, he decided.

Nobody kicked the door open to punish him for stealing. Skids wasn’t home free yet, but if he was lucky—if he didn’t give the guards any reason to look at the surveillance tapes—he’d probably get away with it.

Several minutes later, Skids began to feel strange.

Slag! There might have been engex or some other intoxicant in the candies. Skids felt as though all his senses had been heightened, particularly his sense of touch. His frame felt incredibly sensitive whenever he brushed the duster over his opposite forearm. He was also running a little hot.

_Deep breaths. Calm down. Think about how you’re going to deal with this situation._

There was no way Skids could be overenergized off of two little candies, no matter how hungry he was. He just needed to focus on the task at hand and let the engex burn itself off. He would slow down, and step carefully, and watch his balance, and work steadily, and nobody would notice that anything was amiss. Skids set down the duster, picked up the broom, swept the office and let his mind wander. 

Much to his surprise, his mind wandered into some decidedly filthy territory.

Skids hadn’t thought much about interface since being brought to Grindcore. There was something about the prison environment that killed all his sexy thoughts. Maybe it was the idea of making love in a place that had borne witness to so much suffering. Maybe it was the thought of the guards watching, ready to interfere for their own cruel amusement. To tell the truth, Skids had been so busy with the war that it felt as though it had been a long time since he’d last had any interest in interfacing.

Now, though, his memory banks seemed hell-bent on dredging up recollections of every lover Skids had ever had…and there were quite a few of them. What could he say? He was a superlearner. He craved novelty.

Well, whatever. No harm in happy thoughts to entertain himself while he carried out these menial tasks.

Then his fans clicked on. Skids frowned and turned them off. He didn’t want the Commandant returning to find Skids blasting hot air like an over-revved speedster. It would give the Decepticon entirely the wrong idea.

Except as Skids turned, he felt an uncomfortable tension behind his spike panel, and a shocking wetness under his valve panel. 

_What in the Pit?_

If thinking about old affairs was getting him _this_ charged up, he’d better stop it. Stop thinking about interface before his arousal became apparent on the cameras.

But suddenly interface had become the _only_ thing he could think about. As he looked around the room, he imagined fragging someone on the Commandant’s rug, or better, on the Commandant’s desktop. He kept sweeping, struggling to maintain his grip on the broom when all he could think about was the hard, firm cylinder of a spike in his hand. The ache in his valve grew from distracting to just about the only thing he could think about….well, that, and getting it relieved, by any or all mechs who were up to the task.

_Stop it. Stop it right now._ Skids summoned up the scariest thought he could think of. _What if Snare or Skydive or one of the other Predator jets sees you on the security cameras, all hot and ready? What if the Predators show up here to “_ help” _you_?

The idea of interfacing with any of the Predators made Skids’s fuel tanks churn sickeningly. Skids forced himself to imagine, in detail, being taken by the Predators over the Commandant’s desk, hoping to disgust himself so much that he stopped thinking about interface. Instead, his fans spun harder, even as the thought of being the plaything of _all the Predators, taking turns_ made him gag with revulsion. 

Skids sagged to the floor. What was wrong with him? He hated the Predators and he couldn’t possibly _want_ to be forced into interface, so why was his damned frame getting all hot and bothered at thoughts that would ordinarily be incredible turn-offs? How could he be so disgusted and so aroused at the same time?

_And what was he going to do about it?_

He couldn’t let the Commandant come back and find him like _this_. Wouldn’t _that_ just be a disaster…the Commandant asking, in his smooth and seductive voice, what the matter was, and Skids choking out that he couldn’t _possibly_ complete his assigned work because he was just so _desperately_ in need of a good hard fragging…

…and the Commandant replying, his voice velvet-soft, that perhaps in recognition of all Skids’s hard work up until now, perhaps something could be _done_ to solve the problem…

_No!_ Skids screamed internally, forcing himself to his feet.

He finished sweeping the room, albeit with hands shaking and knees constantly threatening to buckle. His symptoms were not going away. If anything, they were intensifying. His fans were running at full speed and still his internal temperatures were climbing. His valve panel could no longer contain the fluids building up behind it. A tendril of lubricant oozed through the gap in the panel and crawled slowly down his left inner thigh. He could feel it sliding down his leg every time he moved.

What time was it? How long had the Commandant been gone? It felt as though it had been longer than the couple of hours he’d intended. But Skids wasn’t hungry any more. He was struggling with a different kind of appetite.

The room was clean. And Skids had no further work to distract him.

His optics fell on the duster and he wondered how its thick handle would feel if he slipped it up into his poor aching valve. A nice, long, hard cylinder to fuck…that would feel _so very good_ ….

Skids felt to his knees and groaned. How could he possibly be so revved up? Was he _sick_?

Was there a disease that made mechs act like organic mammals in heat? Skids had never heard of one—and his knowledge base was vast—but he admitted he didn’t know everything. He had no idea what was happening to him now. And he could think of only one thing to do about it.

His gaze fell on the shadowy area underneath the Commandant’s desk. What if…would it be so bad if Skids crept under the desk and self-serviced? Surely there were no cameras under there.

And surely if Skids could overload, just _once_ , he’d get some relief. He was probably suffering the effects of ignoring his intimate needs for so long. Now they’d all come roaring back with a vengeance, but if he had just _one_ overload…

Skids shook his head. There was no way that he could get himself off in the Commandant’s office. There was no way he could justify his behaviour if he were caught.

But as the pressure behind his spike panel went from uncomfortable to painful, and it took increasingly more of his attention just to keep that panel from snapping open of its own accord, the more Skids began to fear that relieving his arousal was fast becoming a _necessity_. 

He no longer cared how he would explain himself to the Decepticons. If the Commandant came back now, Skids didn’t trust himself not to try to seduce him. If the Predators wanted to flip him over and pry open his valve panel and frag him, his body would find it a _relief_. His field of vision flashed red with overheat warnings from his frame and excessive activity alerts from his engine. He had to fix this problem, _now_.

Skids scrabbled under the desk and spread his legs, giving himself up for lost. He couldn’t stop himself. He was still holding the duster, and he resigned himself as to what he was going to do with it. As he spread his thighs, he caught himself panting in anticipation. 

_Just do this and get it over with._

But his damned valve panel wouldn’t retract. 

Skids threw the duster aside and opened his spike panel instead. _That_ panel snapped open so quickly and so forcefully that it stung, but Skids didn’t care. He grabbed his spike and started stroking. His head lolled onto his shoulder and he groaned.

Yes. Yes, this was what he needed.

His valve was still flooding his panel. He was probably getting fluids on the Commandant’s rug. He didn’t care. He would say whatever it took— _do_ whatever it took—later. He just needed to overload _now_.

The back of his head thudded into the underside of the Commandant’s desk as Skids felt his overload building.

_Please_. He prayed out of habit to a god he no longer believed in. _Deliver me_.


	5. Heat

Heat

Skids whimpered with disbelief.

He’d overloaded…how many times? Five? Six? Small, weak overloads that did nothing to ease the heat in his frame. His spike was still achingly hard, even though it was now becoming tender to the touch. If he kept going, he’d rub it raw.

Skids stroked it anyways. After a little while the pleasure overwhelmed the pain. Maybe this time he’d finally get some satisfaction.

But it was his valve that really wanted attention. There was a hungry, deep-seated ache far up inside where his data port was, and his panel still would not open, even though he now sat in a puddle of his own lubricants. He tugged at the panel until its edges dented and his fingers ached, but he could not force it to retract. Skids whimpered miserably and returned to desperately milking his spike.

_Primus, help me._

He prayed to a god he no longer believed in, because no god worthy of the name would look down on Grindcore and sit back and do nothing. Primus either didn’t exist, was too weak to act, or worst of all, didn’t care enough to step in. 

But Skids prayed anyway, because there was nothing else for him to do. Nothing more he could do to help himself.

_Deliver me, Primus. Please._

No sooner had Skids finished his prayer than he heard a sound that chilled his spark…the sound of the office door unlocking.

Instead of stopping he tugged on his spike harder, faster, desperate to get one more overload before he had to crawl out from under the desk and explain himself.

“Skids?” The rich, resonant voice of the Commandant echoed through the room.

Skids almost sobbed to hear it, for reasons he couldn’t explain. Still he did not stop what he was doing. He was right on the edge…right on it…

A purple foot came into view. “Skids, are you in here?” The Commandant’s tone had changed. The first time he called out, he had sounded mildly inquisitive. His voice was much sterner now, and Skids knew that he would be in for a whole universe of pain if he made the Commandant hunt for him.

Two more strokes— _oh, please, let me overload._ One more, just one more… Skids hit a climax, of sorts. It was the smallest, weakest overload he’d ever had, and though it did nothing to sate him, it _did_ , at least, make it physically possible for him to release his spike and stuff it back into its panel. There was nothing he could do about his leaking valve panel. He swiftly ran the duster over his thighs, which really just smeared the fluid around. He didn’t know how to make himself any more presentable.

“Skids.” The Commandant sounded angry now, and ready or not, Skids could put the reckoning off no longer.

“Down here, sir,” Skids gasped. He’d tried to make his voice sound weak, but as it turned out, a thready moan was all that he could manage.

The Commandant dropped to one heavily armoured knee and glared under the desk. Skids wanted to shrink from that scrutiny, but he forced himself to crawl out on his hands and knees instead. Even that slight motion made his valve scream for attention and his spike pulse painfully. 

Skids forced himself to meet the Commandant’s gaze, all too aware of what he must look like, with his soiled thighs and blasting fans, on his knees before his warden. “I’m sorry, sir.” He hung his head and waited for his punishment.

“Skids.” The Commandant sounded vaguely disapproving, moreso than angry. “What are you doing down there?”

Skids tried to stand up, staggered, and crashed back to his knees. He couldn’t swallow down a cry of pain. His temperature was redlining and his fans throbbed from overuse. Those feeble overloads had only staved off his condition rather than curing it. There was no point in trying to pretend that nothing was wrong. He was in obvious distress, to an extend that he was physically incapable of hiding it, and if he tried to tell the Commandant that he was all right, the Decepticon would only be angered by his obvious lie.

“I think I’m sick, sir.” Actually, Skids _knew_ he was sick, but he also knew from past experience that it wasn’t smart to imply he knew better than his captors. 

“Skids.” The Commandant put his hand on Skids’s shoulder to steady him, and Skids was horrified at his body’s instinct, which was to lean into the touch and try to press his abdomen against the Commandant’s leg. Did he really think he could grind his panels against the Commandant’s foot and not be punished for it? Skids caught himself just in time, and the pain of denial took his breath away. 

Skids heard the bulk of the Commandant’s weight landing on one knee as the Decepticon brought his frame down to Skids’s level. His sudden proximity was highly distracting and Skids tried to form a dam in his mind against the deluge of thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him. Skids forced himself to focus on the Commandant’s face. 

The Commandant tilted his head. “What is wrong with you, Skids?”

“I…I don’t know.” Skids’s words came out in a rush just as the mental dam broke, overwhelmed by filthy ideas, and a parade of scenarios washed through Skids’s mind, each more perverse than the last. 

The Commandant laying him back on the rug. The Commandant ripping off his valve panel and fingering his valve. The Commandant sitting in his desk chair with Skids on his lap, facing him, his valve lips wrapped around the base of the Commandant’s spike, the Commandant’s hands on his back, getting fucked by one of the most sadistic Decepticons he’d ever had the misfortune to meet and he was overloading over and over again because it was the best frag of his life, it was incredible, and all he wanted for the rest of his life was the Commandant of Grindcore screwing his brain module into stasis…

“I don’t know,” Skids repeated, and hung his head.

“My, aren’t you a mess.” 

Skids still had the ability to flush with shame. He could feel the metal on his cheeks growing hot as the Commandant examined him. The Decepticon ran his fingers through the lubricant on Skids’s thighs and Skids couldn’t help it…he threw back his head and mewled.

The Commandant’s expression was inscrutable. Skids couldn’t tell if he was angry, disappointed or, Primus help him, intrigued. “Do you have any idea what could have caused this situation?”

“No…no, sir,” Skids panted. “I…I hadn’t fueled for a few days…” But even Skids knew that being hungry shouldn’t make his body act like _this_. 

Hungry.

Skids’s clever mind connected the dots into a terrible pattern.

The _candy_. Skids was horrified. Was there some kind of drug in those _candies_?

Skids considered keeping his mouth shut. He didn’t want the Commandant to know he’d stolen two treats, and if he admitted to being a thief, he might get hauled to solitary and left there, left there like _this_ , as punishment. He _deserved_ that punishment. 

Oh, Primus. He’d brought this on _himself_.


	6. Judgment

Judgment

Skids whimpered, horrified that he’d been the architect of his own downfall. Those candies he’d eaten. Had there been some kind of drug in them? Were they the reason his valve panel wouldn’t retract, and the reason that servicing his spike had done nothing to relieve the intolerable heat still building in his frame?

_Oh, Primus_. Who would blend an aphrodisiac with an interface inhibitor and serve it up in a tempting little morsel disguised as an ordinary candy?

His valve pulsed in a strong and hungry spasm. Fluid gushed out of his valve, pooling behind his panel, soaking his swollen valve lips and running ever so slowly down his right thigh.

Some kinky sadist, that was for sure. Skids didn’t doubt that such mechs existed, but for all his curiosity and desire to learn, this was one avenue he’d never felt any desire to educate himself about. Maybe he should have. Maybe he would have known the nature of those pernicious treats when he’d seen them.

It was too late for regrets now. 

The Commandant was going to figure out what Skids had done soon, if he hadn’t already. Unless he didn’t _know_ what was in that box, in which case he would be grateful for the warning.

Maybe if Skids confessed and threw himself on the Commandant’s mercy, he might be able to find some relief. Even if the Commandant were angry, what could he do that would be worse than _this_? Right now Skids was almost ready to seriously consider walking back into the smelting chamber of his own accord just to put an end to the unspeakable agony in his valve.

“I was hungry,” Skids admitted, staring at the floor.

“Oh, yes, your fuel.” The Commandant seemed oblivious to Skids’s shame. “I’m sorry for the delay. I brought you some.”

Skids’s tanks roiled. He didn’t want fuel any more. He wanted a good hard fragging.

“I took a candy. Off your desk.” Skids wet his lips, which had gone bone dry. “Two candies. I thought…I thought they were laid out. For anyone to take.” He wrung his hands. He was afraid to look the Commandant in the optics. “I just needed enough fuel to keep working. To do my job. I’m _sorry_.”

The Commandant appeared confused. “I don’t keep candy on my desk…?”

Skids swallowed hard. Was the Decepticon toying with him? Or had someone tried to ensnare the Commandant, only for Skids to spring the trap? He pointed, his finger shaking, at the partially consumed box of treats.

The Commandant followed where Skids was pointing, rising to his feet as he turned, until he leaned over the box at the edge of his desk. He picked it up in a hand that was, yes, trembling. Skids felt the room start spinning. Was the Commandant’s hand really shaking? Were the contents of the box bad enough to cause such a reaction from the fearsome commander of Grindcore?

“These?” the Commandant whispered, his voice tremulous. “You ate two of _these_?”

Skids nodded. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, “I’m so…”

The Commandant cut him off. “How long ago did you eat them?”

“Just…just a little while after you left. I’m _sorry_. They were lying out for anyone to take and I was so _hungry_.”

“So _long_ ago? Oh _dear_.” The Commandant didn’t sound angry. He sounded _worried_. And through the torment in his interface equipment, Skids felt his reality becoming increasingly surreal.

“It hurts….so much,” Skids panted. “I’m so sorry…” He didn’t know whether to beg for help or not. Could the Commandant ease his pain? _Would_ he?

“You ate _two_ of these just after I left? _Four hours ago_?”

Four hours? It had felt like an infinity. Skids nodded, even though he didn’t know whether the statement was true or not.

“That explains the state you’re in,” the Commandant said. He put one hand on Skids’s hip and Skids couldn’t help it—his spike panel retracted, and his poor bruised spike extended easily. “You’re _supposed_ to burn it off immediately after you eat it,” he scolded.

Skids panted. “It’s…it’s an aphrodisiac,” he said, finally understanding.

“They were a gift from Thunderwing.” 

Skids thought about the Commandant and Thunderwing feeding one another treats out of that box and felt a sudden impetuous flash of…

…surely not _jealousy_.

Skids reminded himself that the mech who was holding him steady with a gentle hand on his hip was the same mechanism who killed Quark, and who knew how many others, in the smelting furnace. The mouth flowers, the beatings, the clandestine experiments…all these things happened either at the Commandant’s orders or with his permission. The Commandant was not his friend and Skids should not care who the Commandant fucked. 

But Skids still hated Thunderwing. Just a little bit more than he ought to hate anyone who wore that purple badge.

“Skids,” the Commandant said sternly. “It’s dangerous to take these and not burn them off right away. Look at you. Your core temperature’s far past redline.”

Skids had valve fluid smearing his thighs and puddling onto the rug, and all the Commandant noticed was his _core temperature_?

“You _know_ self-harm is a serious offense.”

Skids winced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know this would happen.”

“Mm.” Skids couldn’t tell if the Commandant accepted the apology or not. He _had_ to! Surely he couldn’t believe that Skids had worked himself into such a state on purpose just to spite him?

The Commandant wrapped his arm around Skids’s shoulders, holding him steady. “I’m going to put you in private quarters and give you some privacy and I want you to burn that effect off. I trust you understand what I mean?” He guided Skids away from the main door, to a portal in the back of the room that Skids had never been through before.

Skids whimpered and looked back over his shoulder.

“Not your quarters. We don’t have time for that. Every moment you spend running your engine this hard increases the risk of permanent damage to your systems.”

The portal opened. Skids found himself in a room that was evidently a private hab suite. There was a large, plush berth, a simple but clearly expensive desk, a private bar filled with a variety of quality high-grade fuels and a top-of-the-line sound system. That was all Skids could identify before need turned his vision to red.

Skids found himself guided to the berth, where he obediently lay down and rolled onto his back, throwing his legs open with abandon. His whole body trembled at the prospect of immanent relief. He noticed, as though from a distance, that the berth was so much softer and more comfortable than his own cot, and it was covered with silky chamois bedding that stroked his frame like the fingertips of countless lovers… Skids moaned deep in his throat, ready to accept his fate.

“There. Now take your time and tell me when you’re done.” The Commandant turned to leave, and Skids’s vision flashed yellow in panic.

“No, wait!” he gasped, terrified, throwing out a hand in a useless gesture to stop the Commandant from leaving.

“What is it now?” the Commandant said impatiently. “Do I have to be crude about it? _You will self-service until the effects pass.”_

“But I tried that!” Skids was far past shame. His whole body shook with desperation and the waves of heat wracking his frame, sending jolt after jolt through his overtaxed systems. His valve throbbed painfully. “With my spike…doesn’t help…and…” He scrabbled at his valve panel. “It won’t open!”

The Commandant cocked his head. Skids kept pawing his valve panel because even the slight bit of pressure he could generate through the panel was at least _something_.

“Oh _dear_ ,” the Commandant said as he took a step closer. “You didn’t eat the inhibitor type too, did you?” 

He examined Skids with a scrutiny that finally gave the Autobot cause for shame. Rather than stop, Skids dimmed his optics so he wouldn’t have to look at the Commandant watching him rub desperately at his own panel. 

“Of course you did,” the Commandant said, answering his own question. “You really _have_ done a number on yourself, haven’t you? And you’re sure you don’t remember precisely how long it was between the time I left and the time you ate those?”

“I don’t know,” Skids confessed as his hips bucked into his own touch. “I wanted to leave them alone, but I was just so hungry. I ate them and immediately started thinking about…you know. I tried to hold off…as long as I could…do my work like you told me to…” He gasped for air and blurted his confession in a rush. “But finally I had to use my spike, except it didn’t work and… _nngh_!”

Skids had never wanted anything more than for his valve panel to open and fingers to be on and better yet _in_ his valve. His own or the Commandant’s, anyone would do. If only he could have a big, thick spike inside him…

Skids felt a powerful hand encircle his wrist, halting his desperate self-stimulation. He brightened his optics in shock and fear and saw the Commandant leaning over him, holding his arm still in one hand while he examined Skids’s overflowing valve panel. Skids felt the fingers of the Commandant’s other hand dig into his panel’s latch and threw his head back into the soft pillow, groaning with undisguised want.

“Be warned,” the Commandant murmured. “This may be uncomfortable.”


	7. Assistance

Assistance

Skids couldn’t imagine being any more uncomfortable than he already was. Yes, it hurt when the Commandant prised the reluctant panel open, but the delicious rush of cool air against his overheated valve felt so tantalizing. Fluids gushed, dribbling over his belly and down between his thighs. The Commandant did not seem to notice as he slid his fingers behind the panel. 

Skids pumped his hips, trying to get his poor swollen anterior node closer to those fingers, maybe even _brush one_ , but he couldn’t quite reach and then the Commandant released his arm in order to brace a palm against Skids’s abdomen instead, pinning him to the berth. He pumped his hips uselessly against the new restraint. His panel kept trying to close, and Skids felt terribly betrayed by his own frame.

“Brace yourself,” the Commandant said, and before Skids could comprehend what he meant, he was howling in want that far outstripped the pain as the Commandant ripped away his panel in a swift and brutal movement.

But quickly the stars of pain faded away from his vision and Skids realized that his valve was _bared_ , was finally accessible and oh, how good it felt to have it open to the air and on display. Skids spread his legs as wide as he could and tilted his hips, hoping against hope that the Commandant might touch him, might enter him… He was so wet, so hot, so ready. What more could he do to entice the Commandant to frag him?

_Oh, please_. He might not be a sports car but he was a decent enough looking automobile, and a superlearner on top of that. He could pick up what a partner wanted of him so very quickly. And he _needed_ this.

_Please_.

The Commandant of Grindcore eyed the juicy, plump valve on display for him and rubbed his chin. “Hmm. You might need some assistance.”

“Yes….yes, sir,” Skids babbled. “Yes I do, sir, please, yes, Commandant…please…”

The Commandant released his grip on Skids’s abdomen, rose to his feet, and turned away. Skids tried to contain his scream and managed to reduce it to a cry. He had no authority to tell the Commandant not to leave or ask him where he was going. 

He’d thought the Commandant was going to help him!

The Commandant opened the bottom drawer of a cabinet Skids had overlooked. He dug around within and finally withdrew something in a sealed box, which he ripped open with his bare hands. Those powerful hands which Skids desperately wanted digging into his valve.

The Decepticon stripped off the protective packaging, allowing it to tumble to the floor as he walked back across the room to the berth. Skids struggled to focus his optics on the object in the Commandant’s hand. The Decepticon sat down on the berth again and held the item up for Skids to see.

It was white and slender and a wonderful cylinder shape and…

Skids felt his fuel pump leap. He nodded eagerly, hoping the item was what he thought it was.

The Commandant took his hand and pressed the object into it. Skids eagerly curled his trembling fingers around the shaft.

“I’ll leave you to it, then?”

Skids opened his mouth and mewled incoherently. Part of him wished the Commandant would stay. How badly he wanted a warm body next to his, even if that body _did_ belong to the monster who harvested Grindcore’s prisoners for _sentio metallico_ and other parts. Part of him wanted to thank the Commandant for the merciful gift he’d given. But most of him just wanted the sex toy up his valve, the sooner, the better.

He lifted his arm and his hand shook so hard he dropped the toy. It landed on his belly, rolling off him to the mattress. Skids scrabbled for it, clutching desperately with both hands. Why couldn’t he find it? Where had it gone? He cried aloud in distress as he fumbled in a panic. 

It seemed like forever until his fingertips brushed the toy. It had settled into the hollow between his body and the berth. Skids picked it up with fingers gone suddenly clumsy. He almost lost his grip on it again, reached out with his other hand, caught it just in time. Arms shaking, he maneuvered it towards his valve.

One end of it was rounded and vaguely bullet shaped— _this end forward_ , Skids thought. Somewhere there had to be a button or switch or something to turn it on. Skids turned it over, hands trembling, but he couldn’t find anything. Maybe it was just a dildo—for a minibot? Whose valve was this small? It was so slim, so delicate. 

Skids wished for something bigger. Something that would stretch him out, fill him up. But he wasn’t in his own hab, playing with his own collection of toys in his own off-time. He was trapped in Grindcore and already the Commandant was being entirely too merciful given his transgressions and his current state. He should be suspicious, and he _would_ be…later. After an overload or five.

There was a part of him that would have expected the Commandant to drag him down to the guards’ break room, bend him double and tell the current shift to have at him. That was the kind of sadism he would ordinarily expect from Decepticons.

And there was something that set his mouth to watering at the thought of taking all those spikes… He didn’t even care if it hurt. As long as he could get _fragged, hard, often…_

The faint voice of sanity screamed from the back of his head that not getting gang-banged by the guards was a _good_ thing and he would be grateful for this small mercy once he got that overload he so desperately craved.

He still wasn’t sure how he could get it from a toy this slim. But, by Primus, he was willing to work at it. 

His valve clenched and a tumult of pain rippled through his entire frame. To the Pit with wasting time checking the toy for a vibration function or some other activation switch. Skids shoved it in the general direction of his valve with trembling hands.

And dropped it.

Skids sobbed aloud as tremors wracked his body. He was _so_ hot, _so_ shaky and it hurt _so_ much. He barely had the strength to sit up and fumble around for the toy. How was he supposed to get it into his valve? How was he supposed to bring himself to climax once he got it there? Dear Primus, he could barely _see_ for the static in his optics.

But as he sat up and reached between his thighs, he saw the dim silhouette of the Commandant in the doorway.

Skids hesitated as his emotions ran haywire: hopefulness, fear, confusion, lust. He patted ineffectually between his legs, looking for the toy. 

The hazy figure moved forward. Skids guessed the Commandant had been lingering in the doorway, watching, and that idea made Skids’s engines roar harder than ever. He couldn’t control the revving any more than he could control the way his hands fumbled uselessly in the spreading pool of moisture that was slowly soaking into the berth. His body trembled. His valve throbbed ravenously. His lips moved in the only word he could manage any more. “Please.”

The Commandant plucked the toy from between Skids’s legs. “Is this what you want?”

Skids nodded wildly. He reached out his hand and felt the berth sag as the Commandant settled his weight on the edge once more.

“My, your hands really are shaking rather terribly, aren’t they?” 

Skids moaned miserably.

“You can’t even maneuver this toy, can you?”

He couldn’t, but he didn’t want to admit it for fear the toy would be taken away from him. His own fingers couldn’t possibly get deep enough to give his frame what it needed. 

“I said, can you?” the Commandant persisted.

The Decepticon was waiting for a reply. Skids was damned either way he answered. “Please,” he choked out, asking for more mercy than he could ever expect from the Warlord of Grindcore.


	8. Lust

Lust

“Please what?” The Commandant pushed a button on the end of the toy, setting it vibrating, and a loud sob of desperation ripped its way from Skids’s throat.

“Please help,” Skids said miserably, knowing he had absolutely no grounds on which to think that the Commandant would. On his very first day Quark had warned him that the Commandant was a sadist, and that prediction had proved true, given the manner in which Quark had died. The Commandant might stand there and watch until Skids shut down and went offline for good, all the while dangling that toy just a little out of his reach.

Skids’s throat tightened with fear. “Anyone,” he sobbed, because his only hope lay in the fact that what he needed could be granted in a way that would make him sorry he had asked. “I’ll take anyone, just _please_.”

He almost told the Commandant he could watch—but of course the Commandant could. The Commandant could do whatever he wanted: watch or not watch, give Skids to one guard or several, put him in front of a new prisoner and tell the newcomer to frag him or let him die. Telling the Commandant what Skids would or wouldn’t let him do would only insult him, and insulting him might only make him crueler. Skids had no power in this situation. None at all.

_I don’t even have the wherewithal to self-service and save myself._

“Anyone? Like the Predators?” the Commandant inquired as he lifted Skids’s leg and took a seat on the side of the bed where it had been. He settled himself and lowered the limb again until it rested across his lap.

_Oh, Primus, help me_. The prayer rang hollow. No good God could possibly stand idle and watch His faithful servant suffer like this. Either there was no Primus or else He was a sadist every bit the Commandant’s equal.

And the touch of the Commandant’s hand on his leg made Skids’s systems burn like fire.

Skids ate the fruit of bitter defeat and nodded his head in numb acceptance.

“Do you have any idea what the Predators would do to you?” the Commandant asked.

Yes, yes he did, but there couldn’t possibly be pain worse than this, and any amount of degradation would be worth just a brief instant of reprieve. “I don’t care,” Skids said numbly.

“Oh, but _I do_ ,” the Commandant replied as Skids’s optics streamed with light. “I’m not going to let that pack of uncouth brutes _savage_ my personal engineer. You _are_ my personal engineer, aren’t you, Skids?”

Skids nodded enthusiastically. The Commandant actually patted Skids’s lower leg.

“Would you like to do something _more_ for me? Be more than just my engineer?”

“Yes, sir.” Skids didn’t even ask what that something more might be. He realized he didn’t care. He’d do anything for that toy right now.

The Commandant leaned closer. “Would you like to be my very _personal_ assistant?”

Skids felt stunned. Maybe he was just out of his mind with lust from the aphrodisiac, but that sounded very much like a sexual overture to Skids. And right now, Skids wanted it to be one, more than anything else in the world.

“Yes!” he gasped. “Yes, _sir_!”

The Commandant’s optics squinted with apparent pleasure. “I would like that too. But I suppose I won’t get it if you burn out here,” he murmured, running his hand along Skids’s leg while the Autobot writhed uncontrollably on the berth. 

Skids whimpered. His vision had almost completely dissolved into static. His frame spasmed with heat. He could only imagine what damage was happening inside his body as his delicate circuits fried. His whole world had been reduced to his unbearably empty valve.

The Commandant’s hand came to a rest on Skids’s inner thigh and Skids dared allow himself a flicker of hope.

“Will you let me save you?” the Commandant murmured.

If that meant _can I fuck you_ , Skids was all for it. “Yes!” he panted. “Sir, yes, sir…”

“Let’s see what you have there,” the Decepticon purred. 

Skids felt the toy plucked from his hand. He moaned deep in his throat and dimmed his optics. He told himself it was so that he wouldn’t have to watch his body degraded by a Decepticon. And because his vision had faded to grey and he could hardly see through the static. It had nothing to do with the way his brain insisted that it required its full processing power to consider his valve, and that all external stimuli should be shut out in order to fully enjoy what would come next.

When Skids heard the whine of the toy activating, his valve squeezed out a rush of fluid from between aching calipers. His whole body trembled with anticipation. He’d never been so eager to get fragged. Not his first time, when he’d been so excited to finally experience interface for himself; and not when he’d finally gotten someone he’d had his optics on for a long time to return his interest. He sobbed. He’d wanted to treasure those memories for his entire life, and now they’d be forever tarnished, because none of them would ever compare to _this_.

Skids pushed those dark thoughts aside, because they might not be true, and…

The toy touched Skids’s hot, swollen anterior node.

And Skids knew his fear was entirely justified.

Sex play had never felt this good. Skids’s spinal strut arched like a bow, lifting his hips clear off the berth. He pressed back his head into the Commandant’s pillow and failed to stop the cry of relief and sheer _pleasure_ from tearing its way out of his throat.

The toy nudged the left lip of his valve.

Skids kept his optics dimmed. Yes, he wondered what the Commandant was doing…was he watching? Was he pleased? Or was he trying not to look? It didn’t matter, in the end. All that mattered was that Skids got the frag he needed so badly.

His valve was so slick and ready that the slender toy slid right in at only the slightest pressure. Skids groaned appreciatively. He wondered if pumping his hips would be taken as greed, and if greed would be punished.

Suddenly, the joy he felt from the toy’s delightful friction mingled with a cold fear in his spark. What if he did something wrong and the Commandant got angry?

_What if the Commandant stopped?_

“Oh, sir,” Skids moaned. “Sir, that’s so good.”

Did the Commandant like it when prisoners begged? Skids was _sure_ he’d heard about a Decepticon so disgusted by pleas that he punished his captives all the harder when they cried for mercy. Had that been the Commandant of Grindcore? Skids couldn’t remember, and though staying silent might be safer, it also might be the worst thing he could do. If the Commandant thought that Skids wasn’t getting what he needed, he might just _give up_. Skids couldn’t bear the thought. Surely it was better to be vocal.

Especially when he wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to keep himself quiet.

He stopped trying. He’d always been noisy during interface, and he was noisy now, sighing when something felt relaxing, mewling when something left him hungry for more, moaning when something felt incredible. He would’ve cried out the Commandant’s name if he’d known it. He settled for _sir_.

His calipers fluttered madly. It would feel so wonderful if only the toy were thicker. Skids bit his lip; he would _not_ beg for the Commandant’s spike. This toy felt amazing when it nudged his interior nodes, and the Commandant did that quite often. Skids could content himself with this…one leg flung over the Commandant’s lap, the toy pumping gently in and out of his hungry valve, and the Commandant…

Skids dared to illuminate his optics.

The Commandant’s gaze was fixed on Skids’s valve, and on the slim toy that moved like a well-oiled piston, guided by his hand. The Commandant was watching him fuck the toy…or _get fucked by_ the toy, Skids wasn’t sure which was more accurate. And the Decepticon was watching with such _intensity…_

Skids struggled up on his elbows so he could watch too. It was a little harder to pump his hips, but it was worth it to be able to see as he maneuvered his valve to meet the Commandant’s hand thrusting the toy forward. The Commandant’s fingers brushed Skids’s inner thighs and Skids gasped.

Then the Commandant _looked_ at Skids. Looked him right in the optics.

“Feeling better?” the Commandant inquired.

_No_ was a lie, but _Yes_ would mean that Skids didn’t need fucking any more. That wasn’t right either. Skids most definitely needed fucking. Lots more. 

“Please don’t stop,” Skids said breathlessly. “I’ll..I’ll do…”

Fear gripped his spark. He had nothing with which to bargain, He opted for honesty and hoped for the best.

“You know there’s nothing I can offer you.” Skids bowed his head, ashamed more of his powerlessness than of the fact that the Commandant of Grindcore was fragging him with a sex toy so slim it was almost more of a torment than a pleasure. “You know…you know there’s nothing I can promise you…except….except please, don’t stop, I’m so close, I need it so much, you _know_ I need it, and you’re so _good_ at it, it feels wonderful, I can’t take it if you quit, I…I think I’ll die if you stop, so take what you will of me afterwards, just please, _please_ don’t stop now.”

“Do you know what I want from you, Skids?” the Commandant purred.

Skids froze. His breath caught in his intakes. He looked into the holes in the mask, seeking out the Commandant’s optics, fearing the worst, hoping against hope that the Commandant would ask for something that Skids had within his power to give.

Skids’s voxcoder failed him. He mouthed the word _sir?_ instead.

Skids couldn’t see the Commandant’s face under the mask, but the Decepticon’s optics blazed with intensity as he leaned close. He thrust the toy deep into Skids’s valve, seeking and finding a particularly sensitive node far inside. Skids swore he heard the hungry smile in the Commandant’s voice as the Decepticon whispered, “ _Overload for me_.”

And Skids did.

Oh, he _did_.


	9. Interlude:  My Very Personal Engineer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first interlude from the Commandant's point of view...
> 
> Content warning for someone intentionally doing something without the other person's consent.

Interlude

My Very Personal Engineer

The Commandant looked down at his _very personal_ engineer, spread so deliciously across his berth, and allowed himself a moment of smug satisfaction. 

He could admire the sight of Skids’s bared valve all day, plump lips swollen with arousal, glistening so prettily with Skids’s fluids…but he could only afford himself a brief glance before proceeding to the next phase of his plan.

It was going very nicely, overall, though not without a few surprises. The Commandant had not expected Skids to wait so _long_ after eating the aphrodisiac-and-inhibitor laced candy deliberately left out on his desk. He’d overestimated how tough the Autobot’s frame could be…or how strong his will could be.

The Commandant had left Skids in his office fully expecting Talon, who he’d stationed outside the door, to comm him about strange noises coming from inside. He’d have been disappointed, but not surprised, if Skids had used the commlink on his office desk to call for help directly. When the Commandant had finally returned to the office, having heard nothing from anyone, he’d been honestly concerned that Skids’s self-discipline had overridden his hunger. It would be terribly awkward to contrive a whole new set of circumstances to leave hungry Skids alone with those candies.

But Skids had been such a lovely wreck when he’d returned, and yet still clinging so desperately to the last shreds of his modesty. The Commandant smiled at the memories of his poor proud engineer reduced to desperate self-service under his desk.

Lovely as it had been, though, the game would end if Skids’s laser core burned out. Poor Skids didn’t even have the energy left to frag the aphrodisiac out of his systems. The Commandant imagined how all those minute nanobots inside the candies were even now multiplying, using their host’s own fuel and materiel, and they would continue to do so until the electrical charge of overload deactivated them. Skids had let them go so long that they’d overwhelm his systems if something wasn’t done. His poor attempts at spike stimulation hadn’t worked, due to the inhibitors blended into the candies—he came and came and still lost ground. Now that there were so many of them, one valve overload wasn’t enough to knock them all offline. They’d just multiply again while he recharged and, poor thing, he hadn’t nearly enough fuel to power them without shutting down his own systems.

The Commandant had not won against Skids’s modesty only to lose to Skids’s physical frailty after so many days without fuel. But he’d prepared for this.

He reached under the berth for the equipment he’d stowed. A collapsible pole, quickly set up. A bag of intravenous fuel, a feeding line, a capped needle on the end. The Commandant uncapped the needle and delicately inserted it directly into Skids’s fuel line, the one that ran through his elbow joint. He observed until he was certain the fuel was flowing into Skids’s systems. That would keep Skids from going offline in his sleep.

It wouldn’t fill his tanks, of course, but the Commandant had a different plan in mind to address poor Skids’s hunger. And wouldn’t _that_ be enjoyable…for _both_ of them.

The next step was deactivating the nanobots’ replication protocol. The aphrodisiac was already a controlled substance; it wouldn’t have been available on the open market at all without a safe and effective way to deactivate it in case of emergency. The Commandant had thoughtfully removed the instruction booklet and data upload stick from the bottom of the candy box, just to make certain Skids wouldn’t be able to solve his own problem.

The Commandant had stashed the data stick here, in the top drawer of his end table, and now he pulled the device out and tugged off the cap. Should the nanobots multiply out of control—or should the candy’s consumer want to be extra certain that he wouldn’t find himself panting for another overload in a few hours’ time, should any nanobots survive the scheduled play time—the data stick would upload a simple program that would broadcast a stop command to the nanobots, deactivating their replication process.

The stick wouldn’t do anything about the nanobots still in Skids’s systems, of course. _Those_ would just keep on revving him up, keeping his valve wet and his fans spinning and his body oh, so ready to frag, just as soon as he rested up enough to wake up for another round.

The Commandant supposed that the medics probably knew a way to offline all the nanobots _without_ requiring poor Skids to overload until they all expired…but where would be the _fun_ in that?

The Commandant paused as a thought occurred to him. Medics…there was something there. _Yes_. The Commandant knew _exactly_ what he would say to put his favourite engineer even more firmly on his hook. 

His gaze fell to Skids’s splayed legs and he wondered which game was more delicious: the one he was playing with Skids’s body, or the one he was playing with Skids’s mind. But, of course, they were going to complement one another very nicely by the time the Commandant was done.

The Commandant reached out with his left hand and used his fingers to delicately spread the plump lips of Skids’s valve. It took a few tries, given how slick and wet they were. Lubricant seeped onto the Commadant’s hand, and the Decepticon allowed himself a fantasy of taking Skids just like this. How long had he imagined what it might be like to get Skids into his berth? And how _good_ that valve would feel…

But although the Commandant was not ordinarily one to defer indulgences, this time he made an exception. When he took Skids for his own, the engineer would be awake. Eager. And _happy._ Gloriously corrupted. 

Just what Megatron had done to him..

And to get Skids to that point, those nanobots had to stop replicating. The Commandant slid the data stick into Skids’s waiting valve, which swallowed it up almost instantly. So hungry—but so tight. The stick, though only a little larger around than the wand, barely fit. That was the influence of the inhibitor, tightening all Skids’s calipers as tight as they would go. Just as well the Commandant was being patient—his spike wouldn’t even fit, at least not without terrible damage, and he had no intention of _ruining_ his new pet.

The Commandant thrust gently with the stick, working it back and forth, easing it past those overtightened calipers until he reached Skids’s waiting data port and clicked the jack on the stick into place. With the press of a button, he began downloading the program to turn off the nanobots.

Skids moaned and trembled in his sleep. His lips curved into a smile. Even in recharge, his frame recognized and enjoyed the sensation of something plugging into his port.

The Commandant couldn’t help a smile of his own under his mask.

His left hand let go of Skids’s valve lips. They closed around the data stick, pulsing gently. 

The Commandant tenderly stroked Skids’s sides. The engineer’s smile broadened and he pushed into the touch. “Good,” the Commandant purred, “very good.” 

Skids’s expression was one of pure bliss.


	10. Awaken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Content Warning for: Non-consensual sexual activity initiated while one party was asleep; thoughts about consent; consent issues; problematic attraction.

Awaken

Skids awoke slowly from blissful recharge and realized, to his surprise, that he was interfacing with someone.

Mmm, and it felt so good in his valve, too, pumping in and out. He was a little surprised at just how turned on he was. He’d woken up hot from an erotic dream before, but never like _this_. Primus, he just wanted to lie here and frag all day.

As something hard nudged an interior valve node and set it tingling delightfully, Skids realized he wasn’t dreaming.

_Primus_ , but this was wonderful. Skids shifted his legs, spreading them wider, and moaned in pleasure as the sensations just got better. _Yeah_. This was what he liked.

Something dark flickered in the corner of his mind. Skids ignored it. He could think about unpleasant things after he overloaded. The world wasn’t going to end if he took a few moments for pleasure first.

He couldn’t stop now if he tried.

His hips pumped rhythmically in a undulating rhythm. Surprisingly, Trailbreaker had been right after all. There really was nothing like a slow, comfortable screw. 

A thought flickered through Skids’s mind. Didn’t he usually like interface that was a little more…creative…than something this vanilla? Hadn’t he used to make fun of Trailbreaker for being into stuff like this? Lying on his back taking spike in a slow, drawn-out session….how boring could you get?

Only it wasn’t boring. It was heavenly. Skids reclassified this sleepy vanilla sex as _boring in theory but amazing in practice…sign me up for more of this!_

Skids hoped he didn’t have any work to do today, because his mouth watered at the thought of spending the whole day in bed with the mech who was doing these wonderful things to him. His appetite felt like it had barely been whetted and the real feast was still to come. Slow and easy like this, he could probably frag for hours. And oh, how he wanted to. He hoped his partner had the endurance to match.

Later, Skids vowed to fully re-evaluate his tastes. What else had he dismissed without giving it a proper try?

Except…

Another thought forced its way into his consciousness, a darker thought, and it presented itself front and center so Skids could not ignore it.

_How did you start this interface session?_

Skids was forced to admit that he didn’t remember the beginning of this delicious encounter. He’d been asleep. Was there something wrong about that? _Asleep_ wasn’t the same as _unconscious_ , was it? 

_It is. You weren’t given a chance to consent before this frag began._

Skids tried to recall if he’d given his permission last night. _Hey, you wanna wake me up with a little loving, you can be my guest…_ something to that effect? But his memory banks were empty. No recollection of discussing this current encounter.

_No recollection of who he was in the berth with._

Skids felt his frame tense ever so slightly. His partner, oblivious, kept working Skids’s valve.

Oh, Primus, it was good. 

How could something this good be wrong?

But why was he so _revved up_? Skids almost didn’t want to know what was happening. If he kept his optics shut he could just savour this session and enjoy his eventual overload. He wanted to overload so much. Again and again. It didn’t matter who…

_Who_. That really was the question, wasn’t it? Skids knew damned well that he ought to at the very _least_ be aware of _who was fucking him_.

…he didn’t have a very thick spike, this mech who was fucking him. Skids didn’t have a thing for enormous spikes—for all his sleeping around, he’d never fucked someone significantly larger than he was—but he _did_ like a spike that at least stretched his valve a little. This one was so thin, it only touched one valve wall at a time. 

A minibot….?

That was kind of weird to consider. But Skids had already learned his lesson about dismissing things out of hand. If his lover was a minibot, well, he was doing pretty great things with that little spike of his, and Skids would have to be more open-minded in future. 

Skids illuminated his optics.

His breath caught in his throat.

The mech between his legs wasn’t a tiny minibot. He was actually rather _big_ —massive shoulders wrapped in a cape of tank-tracks, forward-facing guns braced on a broad back, and a powerful hand wrapped with surprising delicacy around a narrow wand of a sex toy. _That_ was what he was being fucked by, not the mech himself.

Skids lifted his optics to his lover’s head and thought for a moment that he was still partly asleep. It was as though some tendril of nightmare reached up from his subconscious and distorted his perception. For a moment it seemed as though his lover had a huge Decepticon sigil instead of a face.

Which was ridiculous. Skids reset his optics and, in that moment, wondered what his sleeping brain was trying to tell him. Some sort of metaphor about being brutalized by the enemy faction? But why would such a thing feel so good? Mmm, that slow but steady pulse in his valve… 

Maybe it was that his brain was trying to make him feel guilty for this frag, but that didn’t make any sense either. Skids had never felt guilty about enjoying interface or sharing it with multiple partners. He didn’t bother asking if his partners had courtmates, either—if they were cheating on someone, that was their transgression, not his. 

The only reason he’d have to feel bad would be if he’d led someone on, pretending he wanted to court them just to get them into the berth. Skids couldn’t imagine that he’d done that. He’d felt badly enough about partners who’d presumed, of their own accord, that he’d been offering more than he’d been willing to give. Now Skids went out of his way to make it clear that he wasn’t looking for exclusive relationships. If he’d failed to do that this time, then _he_ was the deceiver, not his lover.

…Unless he was actually fucking a Decepticon.

Good Primus, that would _definitely_ be something to feel guilty about. Skids’s optics came back online, awash with static, and Skids felt his frame tensing up because holy slag, if he really was interfacing with a Decepticon then it would be impossible to stay totally calm and relaxed, no matter how good the ‘facing was. How was he supposed to stay revved up when he thought about things like anti-personal mines, and the bombing of Carpessa, and Grindcore’s teleport chamber that was really not a teleport chamber at all, the one he’d been pulled out of at the last minute by…

Skids’s optics came online.

_The Commandant of Grindcore_.

Skids hadn’t been having a nightmare. Or, if he had, it was not the kind of nightmare he could escape simply by waking up.

There really was a mechanism with a Decepticon symbol for a face, or rather, one who always wore a mask in the shape of the faction sigil. Skids could only guess what the Commandant looked like under his mask. Quark hadn’t known. If anybody at Grindcore had known, they weren’t telling.

And _that_ was who Skids was taking it in the valve from.

It might be a toy, and not the Commandant’s spike, but Skids felt sickened regardless. The Commandant of Grindcore was the kind of sadist who thought it was perfectly fine to line prisoners up for a trip off planet—prisoners who would find that their transport chamber was in fact a smelting pool after the doors had closed behind them. It would have been bad enough to _tell_ Skids this harsh truth, but the Commandant had let Skids experience the terror for himself, only to yank him out just in time to watch Quark and the others melted down to their component metals. 

This was _not_ the kind of person Skids would choose to take to his berth, which had to mean that Skids hadn’t wanted this encounter, but oh Primus, if that were true, if that were true why wasn’t he trying to get away? Why wasn’t he saying anything? 

_Why did it feel so overwhelmingly good?_

The Commandant was a killer, there was no doubt about that, but Skids didn’t feel fear at all. What he felt was _disgust_ , that he’d allowed this to happen and worse, that he was _enjoying_ it so much. 

_Tell him to stop. You know he won’t, but at least it will be clear to him and to you that he’s assaulting you, that he’s forcing you, that you don’t want this. All you have to do is tell him to stop._

But Skids couldn’t.

_I don’t want him to stop_.

_I know exactly who and what he is._

_I know how wrong this is._

_And Primus help me, because it doesn’t matter._

_This is the best ‘facing of my life._

As though the Commandant sensed Skids staring at him, he lifted his gaze from Skids’s valve to Skids’s face and tilted his head. Skids imagined a slow and wicked smile spreading across his lips behind his mask.

_Just tell him to stop. If you’re any kind of Autobot, you’ll tell him to stop._

Skids opened his lips.

“More,” he said.


	11. More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: Yes, this is a dark story, and it gets darker from here. 
> 
> If anyone wants to hit eject and get out, because the elevator's going farther down than you want to go, that's fine and that's okay. This story Is What It Says On The Can.
> 
> It *is* canon-compliant, so Skids doesn't die or live the rest of his life as a slave or anything like that, but he DOES end up with the very real trauma we see in MTMTE, and that's where this fic is going.

The Commandant chuckled while Skids lay there, stunned, trying to understand what had gone wrong. He’d intended to tell the Commandant to _stop_. Stop playing with the wand that was currently pumping in and out of Skids’s valve.

Instead, Skids had asked for _more_.

It felt good. It felt _so good_. The Commandant was a terrible person and as evil as they came and yet Skids couldn’t fight how good this sex-play felt. 

Skids tried to convince himself that if the Commandant wanted to interface with him, or kill him, or torture him, he wouldn’t be able to prevent it. Skids’s life had been in the Commandant’s hands since he’d walked through Grindcore’s gates, and if he’d once thought he could trade his skills to better the lot of his fellow prisoners and yes, to an extent, his own lot as well, then that had been Skids’s illusion. Skids knew now that whatever happened to him was as the Commandant willed it. The only thing saying _stop_ would do would be to underline Skids’s lack of consent in all this. Since consent meant nothing to his captor, the end result would be the same. 

So it didn’t matter that Skids had been unable to say it.

But the crushing shame bearing down on Skids’s spark told him that yes, it _did_ matter. Because if the Commandant asked, Skids would be thoroughly and joyfully consenting to this act.

He’d sell out his whole faction for the sake of a frag. He was dirty. Filthy. Corrupt to the core.

But he’d never been prepared for interface that made him feel like this.

_Oh, if only it were the Commandant’s spike…_

The Commandant spoke, interrupting Skids from the fantasy playing out in his brain. “Good morning, Skids.”

And because Skids was terrified the pleasure would abruptly stop, he politely replied, “Good morning, sir.”

The Commandant laughed again. “How are you feeling?”

_Revved up._

_Sick with guilt._

_Terrified, not of you, but of what you’re doing to me. Of how you’re making me feel._

“Fine, sir,” Skids said.

“That’s good. Your core temperature’s gone down and your systems are stabilizing.”

There was something utterly surreal about the Commandant casually updating Skids on his own condition while working a sex toy in and out of his valve. How could the Decepticon brief him and frag him at the same time? It was all Skids could do to keep from moaning.

Primus...

_There is no Primus_.

God or no God, Skids had to do _something_ to keep the Commandant accountable. He couldn’t manage to tell him to _stop_ , but surely he could at _least_ …

“I…I was asleep,” Skids managed to say.

“You passed out after the first overload,” the Commandant said mildly. His slow, rhythmic thrusts with the toy did not falter in the slightest.

_Was I forced into this? Or did I agree to it?_

_By the Matrix. Did I_ ask _for it…?_

_Did I beg…?_

Skids didn’t remember. 

He closed his optics. He could talk his way around to the point he needed to make. It would end the pleasure, though…

So he kept his mouth shut until his frame shivered its way through another overload.

Skids expected to feel…He wasn’t sure. Embarrassment? Fatigue? Yes, but more importantly, _satisfaction_. Having had his pleasure, his brain should be able to move on into the awkward aftermath. Instead, his valve moistened in anticipation of another round and his brain enthusiastically chimed in, _yes please!_ He felt like he’d had an appetizer, not a meal, and he was still so very _hungry._

Skids spoke before he could think better of it. So the interface was unsatisfying…so what? The disappointment wouldn’t _kill_ him.

“Is it that you don’t see anything wrong with fragging someone who’s unconscious?” Skids blurted, trying for an arch tone, failing miserably.

The Commandant tilted his head and spoke in a mimicry of Skids’s tone. “If you’d rather overheat and die, be my guest?” He pulled the toy away, and Skids’s valve clenched on emptiness. 

Yellow flashing caution lights almost overwhelmed Skids’s vision. Skids wracked his brain, trying to remember. His fingers curled into claws, gripping tightly to chamois bedding far softer than any prisoner got here in Grindcore.

Skids panted. How had it gotten so hot in here, so quickly? His fans…his fans were running slow. They couldn’t run faster. They hurt…how could they possibly hurt? Skids ached in places he didn’t even know had sensors. And all of it paled next to the desperate, throbbing hunger in his valve.

Skids arched his back as his whole body spasmed with pain. His valve calipers fluttered desperately. He groaned, not caring how loud he was, not caring if the Commandant enjoyed this torture. Skids had no reserves with which to deny the Commandant what he wanted.

“There, you see?” The Commandant sounded aggrieved. “ _Now_ can I continue?”

“Sir,” Skids gasped. He felt as though his thighs were moving of their own accord, straining to stretch ever wider, trying to find a position that would give some relief to his blazing hot valve. A trickle of moisture dripped down the curve of his aft. “Sir, I don’t remember…”

How had he gotten _into_ this mess? 

His brain didn’t seem to be resetting after recharge anywhere near as quickly as it ought to. All of his processing power had been devoted to thoughts of interfacing: previously, how good it felt to get fragged by that toy, and now, how badly he wanted to fuck, something, anything…any _one._

_But especially the Commandant._

Skids shoved that thought away because he didn’t have anywhere near the ability to parse it now. He had to concentrate on the immediate situation. The Commandant said he might overheat and die. The Commandant was a sadist, and a liar, and as wicked as they came…but Skids’s body seemed to agree with him. Skids didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to take chances.

_It’ll be so much easier just to let him have his way with me._

_Why fight when I want this too?_

“Overheat…and die?” Skids panted. He heard a clatter that might have been the Commandant setting the toy down somewhere. _Somewhere that wasn’t up Skids’s valve._

“Mmm, yes. Just because you’re not getting any _worse_ doesn’t mean you’re out of the danger zone.”

Skids closed his legs and rolled onto his left side. The Commandant wordlessly changed his position until he was sitting at the edge of the bed. Skids barely noticed. He was so uncomfortable, and his valve protested loudly at the feeling of his legs being closed. Skids doubted the right side would be any better and he didn’t want to roll away from the mech in the mask sitting at the side of the berth. He groaned and flopped onto his back again, where he lay, whimpering.

“Okay,” he whispered. This situation was _unbearable_. He had to make it stop. “Okay, you win. Do what you want.”

Even if it meant screwing a murderer.

“I _want_ my engineer alive and functional,” the Commandant explained patiently, as though Skids were an idiot. “The question right now is what _you_ want.”

Was the Commandant going to make him say it?

“I want to live,” Skids whispered, knowing he was putting ammunition into the Commandant’s guns, but his spark raged in his chest and his valve ripped with desperate hunger. Wish though he might, he was not ready to die to thwart the Commandant. Not yet.

The Commandant reached over to an end table at the foot of the bed that Skids hadn’t noticed before. He picked something up in his left hand and then, optics sparkling, he turned to Skids and held up his hands.

In his right hand was the slim white wand that had been in Skids’s valve when he woke up.

In his left hand was a slightly thicker toy, shaped like an actual spike, that set Skids’s mouth to watering.

“Or rather,” the Commandant said, “the question is _which_ you want?”


	12. Recall

Recall

Skids swallowed thickly. Funny how he hadn’t noticed how dry his throat had become. 

“The…the one on the left,” Skids stammered.

_As if the Commandant didn’t know._

Still, Skids had been given a choice. He watched the Commandant dip the toy into a shallow dish on the table, maybe a container of some sort—and how could his mouth be watering with anticipation when his throat was so dry? 

When the Commandant lifted the toy, its surface was glistening with moisture. Skids wondered if the container held some kind of lubricant or jelly. Oh, he hoped it did. It would feel so good…

Skids pushed away these inappropriate thoughts. Bad enough that he was revved up and on the verge of redline and in the Commandant’s berth and worst of all, _hot for the Commandant_.

“What’s happened to me?” Skids whispered dully.

“Don’t you remember?” the Commandant inquired. 

Skids shook his head.

“Your memories aren’t loading yet?”

A gnawing fear chewed at Skids’s spark. The Commandant, his _captor_ , should not sound _worried_ about him. The Commandant was supposed to be the architect of his prisoners’ fates. If the Commandant didn’t like this amnesia, then that meant the Commandant hadn’t planned it, and for some reason that scared Skids far more than the idea of being the Commandant’s prisoner. 

Because as awful as Grindcore had been for everyone else Skids had met in here, the truth was, he’d had it much better than any Autobot could expect, and he’d even started to wonder if maybe the Commandant didn’t value him, at least a little. 

And now… Skids whimpered as his valve clenched, _hard_ , and his temperature spiked into redline.

“We need to get you taken care of,” the Commandant said firmly, “and get you what you need. At once.”

Skids felt unutterable relief. The Commandant was going to look after him and make things be okay.

He almost asked what the Decepticon had in mind, but when his grasping valve leaked a sticky ribbon of lubricant onto his thigh, he realized that _what he needed_ was very, very obvious.

The Commandant leaned forward and delicately spread Skids’s valve lips. Skids gasped, trembling all over, and waited.

Waited for his master to take care of him.

When the toy finally nudged the opening to his valve, Skids tensed up with fear. The Commandant was a sadist. This was going to hurt.

But the Commandant didn’t just shove the toy in. He slowly moved it forward until it met resistance; then he withdrew it and slid it forward again. 

It felt nice. Skids willed his body to relax, but his calipers refused to comply. He was all tightened up and nervous, and the longer this took, the more nervous he got. 

But the Commandant was patient, thrusting carefully, nudging gently but insistently. Skids’s engines revved and he moaned. “I want…I want it in me,” he panted. “Oh, please.”

Instead the Commandant took it away, and Skids gasped in horror, reaching out uselessly as though to grab it. “No!”

The Commandant chuckled as he lifted the toy from the shallow bowl and returned it to Skids’s valve. Once again his other hand spread the valve wide, and once again the toy slid between the swollen lips. The toy was so wet and cool, dripping all over with thick, slippery lube. Skids let out an inarticulate mewl of pleasure. That slick, wet slide was incredibly good.

His calipers wouldn’t open, of course, but that just meant he could feel another smooth, wet thrust. Again. Again.

His calipers started to give.

Again, and the spike sank deeper before stopping.

“That’s it,” the Commandant said soothingly. “That’s very good, Skids.”

Skids looked up at the Decepticon hopefully. The toy spike thrust again. It went deeper yet, with only the slightest resistance. The Commandant squinted his optics in a smile and actually lifted his left hand to stroke Skids’s belly.

Then he thrust again, and Skids rose to meet the toy and it went all the way in. His calipers welcomed it, fluttered around it, and the Commandant began to fuck him with it in earnest.

“Excellent,” the Commander purred. “That’s the way. Pump your hips…yes… _Wonderful_.” Skids felt his spark warm. It was a sensation utterly distinct from the waves of pleasure radiating up from his valve. And he sobbed. 

He was so vulnerable, a prisoner, his valve occupied by a Decepticon’s implement, and he didn’t even remember how he’d gotten here, and instead of feeling angry or frightened or disgusted he felt…like he was _enjoying_ this.

“Skids?” the Commandant said. “Are you all right? How are you feeling?”

Skids almost laughed at how the Commandant could sound so _decent_ , so genuinely concerned for Skids’s well-being, even as he maneuvered a sex toy in and out of Skids’s valve and _even though he was the warden of an infamous Decepticon prison that could better be described as a death camp, and Skids was nothing but his prisoner._

“I don’t remember,” Skids stammered, because it was dangerous not to answer and he had to focus on what was _wrong_ about this situation when his whole body was telling him it felt so _right_.

“Why don’t you relax and see if it comes back to you,” the Decepticon said soothingly. “Your processor might be slow to access memory files due to the heat damage. Give it some time and if you still don’t recall, I’ll be happy to answer your questions.” Skids swore the Commandant spoke in rhythm with the gentle thrusts of the toy in his valve and oh _Primus_ , but it was good. There was something about the Commandant’s voice…Skids wanted to listen to it forever.

But the Commandant fell silent, and for a while all Skids had to listen to was the loud squelching sounds of the toy moving in his valve. It was so incredibly wet down there, what with his own copious fluids and the sleek jelly coating the toy. The noises were obscene, and Skids felt his cheeks grow hot.

Then he almost laughed at his own prissiness. How could he get worked up over some rude noises when the Commandant not only had a front-row view of his valve, but was currently in the process of fucking him with a false spike, and not for the first time?

Skids arched his back— _the better to ram that spike against his nodes—_ and did as the Commandant said. He relaxed, let himself go.

His spinal strut sank back into the mattress as tension eased out of his frame. His hips began pumping in time with the toy’s thrusts and he did not try to hide his complicity in his own fragging. 

Skids dimmed his optics and discovered just how easy it would be to surrender completely. To ignore his whirling thoughts and savour the moment. He hadn’t felt this good in a very long time. Was it wrong, that he wasn’t unhappy?

His inner voice refused to be silenced. It chided him, lecturing him, telling him to _fight_ or at least manage some shame about being hot for the Commandant.

Instead, his thoughts focused on how he wished the toy was longer. It didn’t touch any of the nodes in the upper third of his valve, and those were all aching for attention now. They wanted the same kind of attention that the toy was giving his lower nodes.

His memory banks came online at last. Recollection flooded his consciousness, pushing away his cravings, and Skids gasped aloud. “The _candy_ ,” he panted as he rose up on his elbows. “The candy on your desk.”

“Mmm, yes. Do you know what you did?” the Commandant asked.

“I ate…” Skids’s cheeks flushed with shame again. “I ate your aphrodisiacs. I was so _hungry_ …”

_No. Don’t make excuses._

_You knew you shouldn’t have taken them without permission. You did anyway, and look what happened._

_You did this to yourself._

“I’m sorry,” Skids murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry because you’re in a predicament now?” the Commandant asked archly.

And Skids realized, to his surprise, that he was not sorry merely because he had gotten caught. 

Nor was he sorry just because it had hurt, for a time.

“No, sir,” Skids replied. “I’m sorry I abused your trust in me.”

“Well.” The Commandant changed the angle of the false spike, just a little, but it was enough to press against an incredibly sensitive node cluster and leave Skids gasping with pleasure. “I appreciate your honesty. Your apology is accepted.”

Skids pumped his hips harder. 

“Though, Snare _really_ should have fed you,” the Commandant grumbled.

Skids didn’t care about Snare. His fuel tanks were achingly empty, and the Predator apparently had something to do with that, but right now Skids didn’t care. He could feel his overload building. “Sir…that’s….it’s so good! Right there!”

“Right here?” Just a little more pressure.

“Oh! Yes! Right _there_!”

“Good…that’s good, Skids…work your hips, yes, just like that…”

“I’m not sorry this is happening.” The confession burst from Skids’s lips in a rush. “It feels…it’s the _best_!”

No sooner had Skids admitted his pleasure than he regretted it. The last thing he wanted was for the Commandant to pull the false spike away for fear of showing Skids _too_ good a time. 

But the Commandant didn’t seem at all bothered by Skids’s enthusiastic response. Nor did he use it as a signal to turn the previously pleasant frag into something nasty. Instead, he ran the back of his free hand’s index finger up and down Skid’s inner thighs, adding another tantalizing sensation to the mix, and murmured, “Would you like some more?”

There was really no use in lying now. “Yes! Oh, _yes, sir_!”

The Commandant ran his hand down Skids’s cheek with a sudden intimacy that made Skids gasp.

“Very well. But first…” The Commadant’s fingertip came to a rest on Skids’s lower lip. Skids swore he could smell his own lubricants on the Commandant’s hand. “First, you have to do a little something for me.”

_Fuck him? Suck him off?_

Primus, but Skids _hoped so_.

“Yes _sir_ ,” Skids said.

“Good. We’ll get started soon, but right now…” Skids swore he could _hear_ the smile broadening behind the Commandant’s mask. “Right now, I want you to overload for me again.”

And Skids was more than happy to comply.


	13. Medical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains allusions to doctor/patient sex. It doesn't actually happen, but if just thinking/talking about the possibility of it happening is not for you, give this one a miss.

Medical

Skids didn’t want to be _ungrateful_ , but the toy in his valve really made him wonder about the Commandant’s kinks. Skids had never ‘faced an actual Cybertronian with such a short, narrow spike. It might be thicker than the vibrating wand the Commandant had used, but not by much, and Skids’s calipers fluttered against it, seeking girth that wasn’t there. Then they clenched, and Skids felt as though the toy could roll around inside him, instead of stretching him out and filling him up like it ought to. Unlike the wand, its tip came nowhere near the sensitive nodes in the top part of his valve, and those nodes were now aching for attention.

Primus. He’d only just overloaded and suddenly Skids found himself hungry and unsatisfied again. 

But the Commandant wanted a little reciprocation for this favor. Skids hoped that if he did a good job, he might get a proper fragging from something a little bigger.

Like the Commandant’s spike.

“Sir,” Skids panted. His voice was still a little hoarse from his recent overload. “What can I do for you?”

“Hmm.” The Commandant seemed suddenly reluctant, and Skids felt his spark seize with the chill of panic. “I’ve been reconsidering.”

“What? Why?” Skids rose to a sitting position, heedless of the toy in his valve, and suddenly that toy was pressing against a different node in his valve.

 _Oh, yes._ Skids’s optics flickered with the sudden sensation of new pleasure.

“I’m wondering if perhaps I ought to send you to see the medic.”

Skids could feel his pleasure starting to build, but he was no longer so desperate that he needed an overload now, immediately, to release his frame from pain. If he were alone in his berth—free, somewhere outside Grindcore—if he were a normal mech on a normal night doing a little self-servicing, he would absolutely take the time to approach the fresh node slowly and teasingly and stretch out his pleasure. 

He would do that now. He leaned back a little, then raised himself on his arms so the toy pressed only lightly against the node. It would feel good and also give him a little time to think. He pondered the Commandant’s question as the toy gently brushed his node.

“Right _now_?” Skids asked. Because he really did want to overload first.

At least once or twice.

“Well, the sooner, the better, wouldn’t you think?” And the fact that the Commandant added, “But it’s up to you” made Skids’s head swim in confusion. He’d been a prisoner long enough that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be responsible for making choices about his own welfare.

Ordinarily, _yes_ , he really should go see a medic when his engines had been running so hot for so long. Not to mention when he’d inadvertently ingested some unknown cocktail of drugs.

But it wasn’t an Autobot doctor he’d be seeing. “Who’s on duty?” Skids croaked. “Glit or Sauder?”

 _Please let it be Glit_. But Glit’s presence in Grindcore was as much punishment for the Decepticon surgeon—infamous for his acts of mercy to Autobot as well as Decepticon—as it was benefit for the Decepticons as a whole. Glit wasn’t always allowed to do as he pleased. Sauder saw to that.

And Sauder had a friend, a scientist with very particular research interests, who drew from the pool of prisoners to find candidates for his experiments. Some of them survived. Some even survived more or less unscathed. Too many others didn’t survive at all.

No, Skids couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t get the sadistic doctor or his unethically curious friend assigned to his case, and he didn’t want to think about what those two might decide to do with an Autobot hepped up on aphrodisiacs. There was really something to be said for the devil one knew. And right now, Skids wanted to get very personal with that devil, the Commandant of Grindcore.

“I’m not sure,” the Commandant mused.

Glit would be bad enough. Skids whimpered. What would happen if the Commandant made him go to the medic’s, and Glit was on duty? Skids didn’t trust himself not to beg the felinoid surgeon to spike his poor needy valve.

The thought of being fragged by a Decepticon with an animal alt—and no robot mode—should have turned him off. Instead, it turned him _on_. Every perversion seemed to turn him on tonight. Skids tilted his hips, causing the toy to press down harder on his node and feed his hunger. His mind rejected the things his body craved; he wept with frustration and fear. 

“No,” he sobbed.

“No?” the Commandant inquired.

Skids was unutterably grateful for the toy in his valve. Slender and unsatisfying as it was, it at least gave him enough stimulation that he could sort out what he really wanted from his body’s desperate cravings. No. He did not want to frag a creature, and he did not think that seeing a doctor was worth the gamble of crossing paths with Sauder or his sicko pal. 

“Sir.” Skids’s optics streamed with tears. “Even if your medics are professionals. I don’t trust myself.”

The Commandant tilted his head in a gesture of confusion.

“I don’t trust myself,” Skids gasped, “not to beg them for…” His cheeks burned, and he gestured down at his valve.

“Well. You _do_ make a rather tempting picture at the moment,” the Commandant admitted, and Skids felt his spark sing, for no reason he could comprehend. But the Commandant thought he looked pleasing, and that was good.

“Very well,” the Commandant continued. “I’ll respect your choice in this… _on the understanding_ that you’re going to need to consume some fuel. Can you do that for me, Skids?”

Skids’s first thought was that he didn’t want fuel. He wanted to fuck, or rather, to _be_ fucked. But the toy in his valve moved pleasantly against his calipers, and when the Commandant generously thrust it in deep, drew it out slowly, and then shoved it back in again, Skids found himself seeing stars of ecstasy. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered how hungry he’d been before the all-consuming need to frag had obliterated all other sensations. He suspected that after a few overloads he’d notice how empty his tanks were. 

And besides, he had to keep up his energy for fucking.

But, most importantly, the Commandant wanted it. Skids smiled broadly, more than happy to obey. “Yes, sir,” he beamed.

“Good. Because if you _can’t_ , you’re going straight to the medic for a bypass tube right into your tanks.”

“I can refuel. I’ll refuel all you want, sir, just please…” Skids bit off his words.

“Ah. Please _what_?”

Skids shook his head. “Sorry, sir. I can’t…” Skids gasped as the Commandant pulled the toy right out of his valve. His next words came out in a rush as his calipers clenched on emptiness. “Can’t offer you anything in trade, you can already do what you want with me, I…” Skids broke off with a groan as the toy returned to his needy valve, pressing up against aching calipers. Oh, that felt so good.

“I could,” the Commandant agreed.

“But you’re so…so generous,” Skids whispered. It felt as though having the toy out of his valve for just those few seconds had made his entire valve feel so sensitive. Now that the toy was back _in_ , all the nodes that it could reach were lighting up in pleasure. He felt the overload building low in his frame and spread his legs a little wider to better savour the sensations. “ _My Lord_ ….” Skids groaned, and came. Hard.

The Commandant twirled the toy in Skids’s valve, dragging the overload out, causing the toy’s slender length to play against different nodes in turn. Skids cried out, writhing desperately, helpless before the Commandant’s onslaught.

It occurred to him that if Optimus Prime and the other Outliers broke into Grindcore at this very moment to rescue him, he might not want to leave.


	14. Justice

Skids flipped on his side and curled into a ball, face burning with humiliation, panting in the wake of his overload as the Commandant withdrew the toy from his valve. He wished he could pull the bedding over his head and disappear. He dimmed his optics, but he couldn’t stop his audios from hearing the sounds of the Commandant rising to his feet and moving around the room.

_Overloading for the Commandant._

_Being so desperate for a frag that you’re afraid you’ll fuck anyone. Even someone in beast mode. Even all the Predators._

_Even the mech who orchestrated and oversees this nightmare called Grindcore._

The worst of it was, he _still_ wanted the Commandant. Arousal stirred in his valve and with a sob, Skids willed it to go away.

But then the Commandant’s hand fell on his helm and Skid’s traitorous spark rejoiced in his captor’s attention, in that gentle touch.

“I want you to move over and let me get into the berth,” the Decepticon murmured.

Damn. Here it came, then. He was too weak to fight the Commandant off and after the fuss he’d made—after eating something he knew he shouldn’t have eaten, and finding out too late that it was an aphrodisiac—he could hardly say he didn’t want to interface. 

No, in all honesty, it was that he _felt he shouldn’t_ interface, which was different from _didn’t want to_ , even though both were legitimate reasons to withhold consent. And, Skids reminded himself, the whole notion of _consent_ was an illusion here in Grindcore. He was being held in this prison against his will. The Decepticons had not been asked for his consent when they’d installed his mouth flower. Nobody had told him the truth about the “teleporter” engines so he could make an informed decision. With both his body and his thoughts free to be messed with, why would he even think to wonder where consent came into this encounter with the Commandant?

 _Because_ , a dark voice whispered in Skids’s mind, _if Primus sent down His Emissary to stop the Commandant from touching you unless you willed it…you_ would _will it._

Skids rolled over to the far side of the berth and sobbed. He knew it was wrong to agree to this, and yet he couldn’t even force himself to voice an objection. He wanted it. _Craved_ it. He told himself it was the aphrodisiac, but was that really true? He’d managed to overcome fear and pain in combat, so why couldn’t he overcome this? Why was his will so weak when it came to the Commandant? He hated himself for the way his valve tingled with anticipation. 

He hoped the Commandant turned brutal halfway through. He hoped it hurt. He deserved punishment, and he deserved to suffer. He’d betrayed everything he stood for. If there was any justice in the universe, he’d get what he had coming to him. 

Skids felt the berth move as the Commandant got in next to him, and realized he did not have long to wait.

The Commandant settled himself in a seated position, his back against the pillows. Skids felt the Commandant’s hand fall on his shoulder. “I want you to come sit between my legs.”

Skids felt confused. That wasn’t any interface position that he knew of, and he’d made a bit of a study. 

But he was a prisoner, and when the Commandant ordered, he had to obey. There had been a time when he’d tried to bargain with the Decepticon, or think ahead of possible ways to play the situation to his advantage. That time was over. Skids was tired and hungry and burning with lust. His fuel tanks were so empty they ached, but he wanted his valve filled even more than his belly. He obediently sat where the Commandant pointed.

The Decepticon folded one arm around Skids’s chest and placed the opposite hand on Skid’s abdomen. Skids didn’t fight as the Commandant pulled him back against him, but when his back touched the Commandant’s chest, Skids felt a shiver of arousal tear through him. The Commandant might have chuckled. He definitely held Skids a little tighter, a little more securely.

It felt good. Skids felt perversely safe, though he knew that safety was an illusion. The warmth of the Commandant’s frame against his warded off the chills that seemed to dance over his overheated body. He could smell the faint scent of cordite that clung to the Commandant’s shoulder guns. He could feel the thrum of the Commandant’s engine against his back.

Primus help him. He wanted the Commandant to take him. Take him just like this. Hold him as though he were valuable and claim his valve, filling it and marking it, and when he was done, murmuring in Skids’s audio that he was very pleased with his very personal engineer.

Skids mewed, in misery or desire. He did not know which.

The Commandant still made no move towards Skids’s valve. He spoke behind Skids’s head, but they were not the words that Skids had been fantasizing about.

“You need to refuel,” the Commandant said.

Skids squirmed. Intellectually, he knew the Commandant was right. He’d been running on empty far too long. But his valve was starting to drip again. He could feel the fluid creeping down the curve of his thigh. Right now all he could think about was getting a spike inside him. Couldn’t he fuel after he had just one more overload?

He must have whimpered out loud. The Commandant chuckled. “You’d rather have a little something in your valve, wouldn’t you?”

Skids froze for only an instant. Then he went limp in surrender and nodded, ashamed.

The Commandant leaned close and whispered into Skids’s audio sensor. Skids swore he could feel the Commandant’s hot breath escape his mask and tickle the side of Skids’s neck. “I think I have a solution for that.”

Skids’s tanks roiled with fear, but he turned his head and looked hopefully at the Decepticon anyway, praying for the best, readying himself for the worst.

“If you fuel for me,” the Commandant purred, “I think I could find another toy to tuck inside your valve.”

Skids whimpered.

“We could have a long, easy session. You drinking. Me taking care of your…other needs.”

Skids moaned. The fuel he needed and the facing he craved, together? How could he say no?

“Is that something you’d like, Skids?”

The Commandant ought to know damned well that Skids would like it. But Skids realized he was being _asked_. He shivered all over.

Then he gave his consent.

“Yes, sir,” Skids said. “I’d…” His voxcoder blurred with static. Skids swallowed and tried again. “I’d like that very much, sir.”

“ _Excellent_ ,” the Commandant said, in that rich velvet tone that left Skids hanging on his every word. Skids recalled, distantly, that he’d once heard about a predator that used its beautiful but deadly song to entrance its prey while it moved in for the kill. Skids was that prey now. He knew it.

And he was helpless to do anything about it.


	15. Prey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this story and given me such encouragement.

Prey

The Commandant picked something up from the table next to the berth. Skids couldn’t see it very well, not from his position sitting between the Commandant’s legs. He might have been able to sit up and turn his head for a better look, but that would mean moving from his current configuration, with his back pressed against the Commandant’s chest. Skids was pretty sure the gentle vibrations and warmth from the Commandant’s engine were the only things stopping him from breaking down and begging for a fragging, so he didn’t dare move away.

“It’s time to fill your poor empty fuel tanks,” the Commandant murmured as he draped his arms back around Skids and finally gave Skids a good look at the object in his hands.

Skids looked with confusion at the apparatus. He’d expected a cup, or even a can with a straw in it, for him to drink from. Instead, the Commandant held something that looked like a bottle with a thick spout at the bottom. The spout was wide and long and made of some kind of rubbery, flexible material. Of course in the state he was in, it looked to Skids as though it were shaped like a spike.

_It would definitely feel better in my valve than that short, narrow toy…_

Was there no end to his depravity? Wasn’t overloading supposed to get rid of the aphrodisiac’s effects? But he didn’t dare ask the Commandant about the drug-laced candy he’d stolen—not when the Commandant was being so gracious about helping him—and he’d declined to go see the medic, for fear of his lack of self-control where his valve was concerned.

_If I behave myself and refuel like a good little mech, I’ll get a toy inside me._

He’d already consented to allowing the Commandant to do that. There was no point in lying, not when his want was so obvious. He could pretend that a toy was entirely different than the Commandant’s spike, but Skids knew it was already taking the last bit of self-discipline he had not to beg the Commandant to forget about the toy and just take him already.

_I need to stop thinking about spikes and just drink. I need the fuel. Stop thinking about what it looks like and get started on fueling._

The Commandant must have seen how Skids was staring at the spout, because he stroked Skids’s belly and answered his unvoiced question. “It’s medical grade fuel,” the Commandant murmured. “It’s very thick. You’ll need to suck on the tube to get it out.”

Skids glanced sideways at the Commandant, unable to voice the question on his mind.

_Do you want to see me suck on something, sir?_

_Why don’t you show me your spike, then, and I’ll show you how well I can suck?_

Skids shook his head. Giving the Commandant a blowjob wouldn’t ease the aching in his valve. Or his stomach. Now he was just being _perverted_.

Skids knew from Ratchet that medical grade fuel _was_ thick—almost more like a jelly than a liquid. Maybe it _was_ consumed by slurping it through a tube.And even if it _wasn’t_ , the deal on the table was clear—if Skids wanted a toy in his valve, he’d suck that tube.

“Yes, sir,” Skids agreed.

“Now, if you need to stop…if you need to catch your breath…I want you to knock on my armour.”

Skids’s suspicions finally overrode his needs. He’d easily believe that the sadistic Commandant was setting him up to make a fool of himself by sucking on a suggestive tube. He had trouble believing that the Commandant was truly worried about a prisoner who’d stolen his candies. But all the evidence seemed to point to the second statement being the accurate one. “That’s very…generous..of you. _Sir_ ,” Skids said warily.

“Why, Skids. I told you that I wasn’t going to lose my personal engineer to Snare’s neglect and my own carelessness.” Red optics narrowed behind the mask. “I’m _also_ not losing you to whatever temper tantrum you seem to be throwing right now. You might not be able to feel it, but your systems are on the verge of crashing from lack of fuel, so you will wrap your lips around that tube and you will _suck it_.”

“Yes, sir,” Skids said, bowing before the Commandant’s vehemence. He lowered his optics, opened his lips, and leaned forward to accept the tube. As it passed between his lips, he realized that he’d made a gesture of deference—lowering his optics—completely without thinking.

He should be staring the Commandant straight in the optics, or making the Decepticon force the tube into his mouth, or…or something. _Some_ kind of resistance to indicate to the Commandant that he hadn’t broken him. Something, _anything_ , that would let him hold on to a few shreds of Autobot pride.

Instead he obediently closed his lips on the tube and hollowed his cheeks.

That was still a victory, wasn’t it? Because what he really wanted to do was lick the tip of the tube, and then wink at the Commandant, and then bob his head so the tube slid in and out of his mouth, and generally make the Commandant regret he hadn’t…

 _Hadn’t what_? Skids reminded himself that the Commandant had done his absolute best to remain professional in the face of an increasingly revved-up, horny prisoner who was about to go offline after gorging on aphrodisiac drugs. There had never been _any_ suggestion that the Commandant had any sexual interest in him whatsoever. He was here in the Commandant’s quarters because of a chain of events that had started when none of the Decepticons could fix the teleporter…and that was all.

And now was _not_ the time to try to convince the Commandant to give his engineer a chance to show off some of his _other_ skills.

He was going to be a good prisoner, and do as he was told. He was going to get a toy in his valve, and he would enjoy that—far more than he would enjoy sucking off the Commandant, surely? 

But suddenly his own pleasure wasn’t enough.

Suddenly Skids wanted the Commandant to enjoy this encounter as much as he did.

_Stop thinking and drink._

“A little harder, Skids,” the Commandant murmured.

Skids startled—as though he’d been caught out in his perverted thoughts—and quickly did as he was told. He hollowed his cheeks a bit more, sucking more intensely. A bloom of flavour graced his tongue.

The medical blend fuel. Of course it was. Why had his first thought been that it was the taste of the Commandant’s…

“That’s good, Skids,” the Commandant said soothingly. His left hand—the one not holding the bottle—came to rest on Skids’s belly. Skids did not flinch. The touch was welcome.

“Keep going,” the Commandant urged, and Skids began to suck in earnest.

The Commandant’s hand moved on his stomach, stroking gently, and Skids suckled harder to show his approval. The Commandant chuckled. He followed the curves of Skids’s armour with his hand, and Skids drank deeply, so hard he left himself breathless. Skids released the tube, drawing air into his mouth, and the Commandant’s hand stilled. Skids gasped and took the end of the tube back between his lips, sucking in a slow, steady rhythm, and the Commandant’s hand resumed its gentle touch.

Skids relaxed. The highly concentrated fuel felt good in his empty tanks. He loved the way the Commandant was touching him—so gently, as one would caress a precious possession. It felt so good to earn the Commandant’s regard.

The _only_ thing that could possibly make this situation better would be if the Commandant’s hand would only dip a little bit lower. It wouldn’t have to be up his valve, though Skids would definitely welcome the Commandant’s fingers. Even just his anterior node would do. 

Once that thought crossed his mind, he couldn’t dislodge it. The Commandant rubbing his node. Back and forth? Or in little circles? What would be better? Oh, he’d be happy with anything the Commandant wanted. Whenever the Commandant’s hand moved down his body, Skids sucked harder to show his favour. But always the Commandant’s hand rose back up again, climbing towards Skids’s chest.

Skids squirmed. The next time the hand descended, Skids took a deep breath and drew the tube deep into his throat, until his lips practically touched the bottle. _See how much I can take. See how well I can suck… Reward me. Master. Please. I’m good. Reward me._

The Commandant lifted his hand.

Skids almost choked. He quickly withdrew from the tube and the whimper that had gagged him made its way out of his mouth.

“Poor Skids,” the Commandant murmured. “I’d promised you a toy, hadn’t I?”


	16. Promise

Promise

Skids nodded eagerly. He realized, too late, that he’d hit the tube with his nose after moving his head too quickly. He must look like a complete fool.

But the Commandant didn’t seem to mind. If he’d noticed Skids making an idiot of himself in his eagerness to be fragged, he tactfully didn’t mention it. His attention had been drawn to his bedside table. The false spike from before lay atop it, but his gaze was on something inside the top drawer that Skids couldn’t see.

“Did you want the same toy as before, or something larger?”

_I get to pick._ Skids sat stunned by the Commandant’s generosity.

“Skids?” The Commandant raised his free hand and moved it in front of Skids’s optics. “Skids. Answer me. Are you functional?”

“Oh.” How long had he sat there, dazed by possibilities? “Yes, sir.”

“If you can’t choose, I’ll use the one we had before. You took that one quite nicely…”

“The bigger one,” Skids blurted. _Something that will reach all my nodes. Please._ “Sir. Please. The bigger one.”

“If you say so,” the Commandant said, and dear Primus, was that a note of reluctance Skids heard in his voice? _Please don’t let it be reluctance._

“Sir, I’m sure I can take it,” Skids said quickly. “I know my calipers are tight but that’s just the inhibitor doing its job. I swear I can take a bigger spike. Please.”

“Well…”

“ _Please_.”

But the Commandant dithered, wringing his hands. “It’s just that…well…honestly there’s no dignified way to say this. The bigger one is _mine_. Those little one, those were brand new. Unused. The larger one is, well…”

“Used,” Skids whispered.

His valve drooled approvingly. He dimmed his optics. Primus help him. Knowing that the bigger toy had been up the Commandant’s valve just made him want it _more_.

“Yes,” the Decepticon admitted.

“I don’t care,” Skids breathed. He lit his optics and turned his head to catch the Commandant’s gaze, which seemed so worried behind his mask. “Do you really think I’m in any position to question your generosity? Sir?” he asked with a teasing smirk.

The Commandant’s expression remained enigmatic, but Skids felt the Decepticon’s frame relax. “If you’re _certain_ …”

“Oh, yes sir,” Skids said reassuringly. He let his hand trace down his own frame, showing what he had to offer, until it rested on top of his node. _Ohhh_ but that was good. Skids started to rub, back and forth, the way he’d once done in his own berth in the middle of the night while his fellow outliers were all deep in recharge…

“ _Skids_ ,” the Commandant said, and it was clear from his tone that Skids was being scolded.

Skids withdrew his hand immediately. His node ached; masturbation with his node had felt _great_ , unlike those useless attempts with his spike under the Commandant’s desk, and his body wanted him to keep going. He turned again, looking inquisitively at the Commandant. 

“That’s not _appropriate_ ,” the Decepticon said. 

“Sir?” Skids felt confused. “Don’t you want me to overload as fast and as hard as possible to burn this stuff out of my system?” He bit his lower lip. “Don’t you want to watch me overload for you?” He stammered as he added, “You know…at your command?”

“Well, but…” the Commandant replied. “This is supposed to be a medical _necessity_. Not a…a _tryst_.”

Skids felt his spark drop. _He_ was having, surprisingly enough, a really rather nice time now that his fuel tank was full and his body wasn’t running so painfully hot. He’d had some incredible overloads and he was about to have some more. But the whole situation seemed soured if the Commandant wasn’t enjoying it too. He had to pay his warden back. He _wanted_ to. “You don’t like my frame? Sir?”

“I’m not supposed to like it,” the Commandant huffed. “You’re my _engineer_ , not…not a _buymech_.”

“But I’m _your_ engineer,” Skids protested. “I’m…I’m whatever you want from me. Commandant. Sir.” He hesitated, and added softly, “Master.”

“You’re intoxicated,” the Commandant said dismissively.

Skids felt his spark flare with desperation that had nothing to do with the ache in his valve. Oh, Primus, he didn’t want to be left here alone to self-service with a toy spike. “Please don’t leave me,” Skids begged. He shut off his optics, afraid to see the Commandant’s response. He curled his fingers into the Commandant’s treaded shoulders. He didn’t raise his voice—he couldn’t afford to sound emotional or deranged or in any way ugly, not now. “Please, I’ll do whatever you ask of me. Just don’t leave me now. _Please_.”

The Commandant sighed. “This is really what you want.”

Skids’s optics lit with hope. He nodded, and couldn’t quite restrain his eagerness. “Yes, sir!”

The Decepticon shook his head ruefully. “You’re going to regret this tomorrow.”

“Sir,” Skids purred, “tomorrow I’ll be hard at work at whatever task you want from me in return.”

The Commandant tilted his head and—were his optics squinting into a smile? Oh, Skids hoped so.

“So, a big spike then,” the Commandant said thoughtfully.

Skids quivered with eagerness. “Yes, sir.”

The Decepticon’s hand slid back into the drawer. “Is _this_ big enough?”

Skids’s optics widened.

There’d been a photo that had circulated around the Autobot army, a photo allegedly depicting Megatron’s spike. Skids had been certain the photo was a fake. Sunstreaker had claimed that someone had doctored an image of Megatron with the image of a certain…novelty item…that had been very popular in Kaon around the time of Megatron’s gladiatorial career. And then Sideswipe had produced the item in question.

Who’d have guessed that some enterprising mech in Kaon had made his living making interfacing toys themed after popular gladiators? The toys were said to be exact replicas of the gladiators’ spikes, but without actually seeing Megatron’s spike, Skids had no way to be sure. 

Skids was, however, sure—from personal experience—that Sunstreaker’s toy replica had been every bit the equal of the real thing.

Which, now, led him to expect that maybe Megatron’s toy was as well. It was certainly larger than Sunstreaker’s. And the Commandant had coughed out for the top-of-the-line model, the one with the vibration feature and moving plates. Skids was torn between feeling daunted at taking a toy bigger than any real spike he’d ever ridden, and feeling dazed at just how lucky he was to get something that might finally soothe the perverse cravings that had taken root inside him.

“Sir, I’ve never taken a spike that big,” Skids said honestly, “ _but I sure as the Pit am going to try_.”

The Commadant chuckled. “I’m sure you will,” he said fondly, stroking Skids’s belly with his free hand. “Slow and easy though, right?”

Skids nodded.

The Commandant leaned forward to whisper in Skids’s audio. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”

Skids should be worried. Distantly, he realized that if, last week, someone had told him that he was about to be fragged by the Commandant with a replica of Megatron’s spike, he’d have felt ill at the thought. And if they’d told him he’d be eagerly looking forward to it, he’d have probably thrown a punch. That same knowledge whispered in his brain that he might feel just as ill, just as angry, tomorrow, when this encounter was through. Oh yes, he might hate himself tomorrow.

But as the Commandant dipped the sex toy into his bowl of lubricant, Skids realized that whether he should or not, he was going to enjoy himself tonight.


	17. Treat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank each and every person who's left comments on this fic, reblogged it, or otherwise shown encouragement for a story as dark as this one. There's more of you than I can reply individually to (particularly if I ever want to finish this story!) but all of your messages are very much appreciated.

Treat

“Skids,” the Commandant purred, and Skids shivered in anticipation of what was coming next.

“Why don’t you drape your legs over mine,” the Commandant murmured. His free hand—the one not currently rolling a large sex toy in a bowl of lubricant—ran down Skids’s leg, grasping it, lifting it.

Skids was already seated on the Commandant’s berth between the Decepticon’s thighs. When he leaned back, his shoulder rested on the Commandant’s chest. Skids did as he was ordered, lifting first one leg, then the other, and hooking them over the Commandant’s legs. By the time he was done, he was half-reclining, with his head resting on the Commandant’s body and his legs spread wide. The air felt cool against his hot, wet valve and Skids remembered how exposed he was without even a valve plate to cover himself.

Skids wondered what he must look like, laid out like this, ready for fragging. He probably looked like he belonged in an erotic vid, or on one of those pin-ups that Roadbuster had kept in his locker. A creature whose only hunger in life was for interface, whose only pleasure was to have his valve filled. He shivered.

The Commandant hesitated in the middle of stroking Skids’s belly. “Second thoughts?”

Skids winced. “No.” No, anything _but_ second thoughts. He admitted what he’d been reduced to. He was ready to be the slut he’d become. 

He was…he wasn’t even a buymech. A buymech, at least, got shanix in trade.

Not a buymech. Not even a cred-digger, trading interface for luxury, or a blackmailer, fragging before threatening to tell. 

Just a slut. Someone who lacked all morals, for whom the dirty act itself was enough.

“Very well.” The Commandant lifted the toy, allegedly a replica of Megatron’s spike, and brought it into position. His free hand slid down over Skids’s abdomen, brushing his node and making him gasp, before his fingers slid between the folds of Skids’s valve and spread them wide. 

Skids held his breath as the toy hovered just shy of the opening of his valve. He pumped his hips and felt a slight pressure before the Commadant pulled the toy back, out of reach. It left a smear of moisture behind. A taste of the lubricant that coated it. So wet and delicious. So desirable.

Skids sobbed. This torture—it was too much. He couldn’t bear it. “My Lord,” he cried out desperately. “Master, _please_.”

He thought he heard the Commandant make a sound. A moan? A sigh? He didn’t know and couldn’t think because the toy moved against him and the pleasure it caused blotted out all his thoughts.

The pressure was gentle, far gentler than he craved, but it was something. It felt good and Skids was no longer shy about opening his mouth and letting the Commandant know just how good. He tried to say thank you and produced only an inarticulate sound of pleasure.

The Commandant moved his free hand, permitting Skids’s valve lips to close around the head of the toy.

“Slow and easy,” the Commandant murmured, and he slid the toy forward, skating it on the slick of moisture until its head entered the first of Skids’s calipers. Skids had barely begun to tighten on the toy when it slid back again. He pumped his hips and it came forward, into him, splitting his calipers open and oh….. 

…oh, he didn’t need to believe in heaven, because he was in heaven now.

Skids tried to restrain himself from thrusting roughly in his hunger to impale himself with the toy. He didn’t trust his self-control but thankfully he didn’t have to. The Commandant’s free hand pressed against his abdomen, holding him back. When he thrust, it wasn’t the toy spike that stopped him; it was the Commandant’s grip. He would have to wait and let the toy enter him.

It didn’t stop him from thrusting.

“Oh, _sir_ ,” he moaned. He wanted it. He wanted it so badly. And if the Decepticon wanted to hurt him, to make him suffer, all he’d have to do would be to _stop_.

But the Commandant didn’t stop. He slid the toy forward again. And again. And _again_. The toy sank deeper with each thrust, and Skids loved it.

Until it met resistance.

There was a certain point in his valve—about as far as the previous toy could reach at maximum penetration—where Skids’s calipers just wouldn’t open up. The new toy nudged against the caliper ring but could not penetrate. His body, likely under the effects of the inhibitor, was reluctant to give any more. Against his will, his own frame was reluctant to allow the thick toy full admittance. 

Skids found himself flustered and gasping. He wanted the toy all the way inside him, but his body refused to co-operate. What would happen if the Commandant grew impatient with him? Was he disappointing his Lord?

“Now Skids,” the Commandant murmured, “I’m going to need your help here.”

Skids nodded eagerly. Anything!

“I’m going to need you to push out, against the toy, for me. Do you think you can do that, Skids?”

“Oh, yes, sir.” He wasn’t unwilling. Not at all!

“Good. Let’s try, shall we?”

The Commandant slid the toy forward, and Skids arched his back, pressing against the movement of the toy. The Commandant moved his free hand up to Skid’s chest, no longer pinning the Autobot’s hips. Skids’s valve parted easily, and the toy slid deeper, deeper…it was a little uncomfortable but Skids felt a tight caliper ring let go and he took the toy farther than the previous toy could reach. It touched a node that only the wand had touched. And it felt wonderful.

The Commandant didn’t push any farther. Skids lay there, sighing happily, revelling in the feeling of being stretched and filled. His calipers fluttered, and the toy slid outward.

The Commandant withdrew it slowly. Skids whined.

“Sssh,” the Decepticon soothed. “Again.”

 _Again_. Skids lifted his hips eagerly and pushed. The toy spike impaled him again, driving deep, so deep…

Another caliper ring. Another surrender. It burned but it felt so good. Yes, he wanted this.

“You’re doing so well,” the Commandant said softly. “Do you think you can take any more?”

Skids felt giddy with pleasure, and not just from his valve. His spark felt warm. The Commandant’s caress was such an incredible sensation conveying affection, satisfaction, value, admiration in a touch. 

“Oh, yes, sir,” Skids whispered.

In the end Skids had the whole toy buried to the hilt in his valve. It had been a little uncomfortable at times, but in the end, more than worth it. To be filled all the way, to be stretched, to have each and every one of his nodes stimulated…it was wonderful. Almost as wonderful as the Commandant’s praise.

Skids didn’t suppose he’d ever get the chance to frag Megatron, which was something he’d never thought he’d consider a bit of a pity. Now, though, he had to admit that if Megatron’s spike really _did_ look like this and if Megatron could use it with _half_ the Commandant’s skill, well, the Decepticons who got into their leader’s berth were in for quite a treat. But Skids couldn’t bring himself to feel too badly for missing out. Megatron’s spike was very nice, yes, but Skids would still rather be right where he was—with the Commandant of Grindcore.

It crossed Skids’s mind that the reason the Commandant was so very good with this toy –the toy he’d admitted to being his own, for his personal use—was because he’d _practiced_ with it.

How many times had the Commandant lain in this berth with this toy up _his own_ valve, learning through personal experience just what to do with it to produce these incredible sensations?

The very thought of _that_ kicked Skids into an overload of breathtaking intensity, and before his mind shut down from the pleasure, he had time for one more thought:

_How much better would this feel with the Commandant’s spike?_


	18. Interlude:  Sweet Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Shackles" is taking a break for the holidays and will resume in January. To end this year, here's another little look at the Commandant's point of view.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's supported this story. Have a great holiday season and see you back in the New Year for more :)

Interlude the Second: Sweet Guilt

Skids was out of it again. The Commandant admired the blissed-out Autobot sprawled in his arms, toy in his valve, smile on his face. Oh, yes, this result had been worth the wait, and the effort, and the careful planning, and now…now the Commandant could enjoy himself, all the while remembering that he was still laying groundwork, and the best was yet to come.

A prickle ran up the Commandant’s spinal strut. The sensation might have been trying to be guilt.

He really shouldn’t be doing this with a prisoner.

The Commandant tried to shove the thought away before it ruined the deliciousness of the present, but Skids was deep in recharge and the notion was persistent. The Commandant had always prided himself on his professionalism and his devotion. It wasn’t right for him to be using captives of war as sex slaves. He’d explicitly forbidden his troops from interfacing with Autobots. So why was he now doing it himself? Why was it that the guilt seemed to make it that much sweeter to finally indulge?

_Was he betraying his Lord?_

His frame belonged to Megatron, just as surely as his labour and his spark. Was it cheating, then, for him to play with Skids in this manner? 

Surely not. He had no intention of letting Skids anywhere near his valve. _That_ was reserved for Megatron. And Megatron had never shown any interest whatsoever in the Commandant’s spike.

So, the logical conclusion was that his spike was for his personal use; and it was up to him who he chose to use it with. Megatron had certainly never told him he _couldn’t_ use his spike elsewhere. Nor had the Commandant ever promised to keep his spike to himself. Megatron certainly didn’t. The Commandant knew for a _fact_ that he wasn’t the only mech who’d been in Lord Megatron’s berth of late.

If Megatron could do it, so could he, the Commandant thought. He would take Megatron as his example and he would find his _own_ cadre of faithful pets to entertain him during the long, cold days here in Grindcore. 

Starting with Skids.

Oh, _Skids_. He had long dreamed of what it might be like to be with Skids; dreams stretching back into a past that the Commandant thought he had all but forgotten, until Skyquake had given him a list of new prisoners and all those old fantasies from his pre-Decepticon days had come roaring back with a vengeance when he’d seen Skids’s name among the others. 

In those long-lost days before the war, Skids, though very _generous_ with his frame, had not been so generous to the mech who was now the Commandant. Not that he’d been much to look at, back then. Not that touching him hadn’t been without its risks. 

When the Commandant thought about what he’d been during his time with Shockwave’s Outliers, he lost all his anger, all his resentment. He could hardly blame Skids for refusing his overtures when he knew full well that he hadn’t been worth fucking—too much risk for too little reward, from an ugly little gremlin who…

But never mind. That life was behind him, and that _name_ , and that non-face…not that he’d been particularly notable before the empurata, either. A nobody with grandiose dreams. 

Skids had been his first real crush, and even Lord Megatron had not blotted those old fantasies entirely from his mind. And now…

Now he was _somebody_ , somebody with power. A strong frame. A pernicious talent. Rank, money, _respect_. He would use all of it to get what he wanted and make up for lost time. Megatron had schooled him in the art of _taking_ his due. 

How? Well, the answer was simple. Megatron had set him an example of how it was done.

He was Megatron’s, now.

And, very soon, Skids would be _his_.


	19. Rewarded

Rewarded

Skids resurfaced into consciousness, as if he had been floating in a deep, dark lake of dream, and only just now breached the surface again. It was not the first time he’d done so. He felt as though he had been in the lake for…he was not certain how long, exactly, but a while at least. Enough time to surface and wake and let go and slip under again; enough time to remind himself how good he felt just where he was.

He was no longer frightened, or even surprised, when he woke up and saw the Commandant next to him. He no longer felt guilty about allowing the Commandant to continue manipulating that big toy in his valve, or about asking him if he could sample the vibration feature, or about expressing his appreciation for the sensations it caused. The Commandant’s closeness, and the pleasure that came from it, were natural now. Skids felt comfortable here, allowing the Commandant to do as he pleased with Skids’s body. Skids welcomed the Commandant’s every touch. Feeling contented, senses swamped with pleasure, Skids abandoned himself to the cascade of ecstasy running through his frame, and allowed himself to fall into recharge once more.

This time, when Skids woke up, he found himself draped across the Commandant like a blanket. They’d changed position: the Commandant lay on his back on the berth, his head resting on the pillows, and Skids rested atop him, his cheek nestled against the thick tank tracks on the Commandant’s shoulder, his legs straddling the Commandant’s hips. Much to Skids’s surprise, the Commandant was not playing with the toy in his valve. Skids could feel it in there, buzzing away on one of the lower settings, but he could also feel the Commandant’s hands elsewhere. One was tucked into the small of Skids’s back, holding him securely in place, and the other stroked the back of Skids’s neck, over and over again.

The Commandant was speaking to him, a soft, lilting croon.

“Good…that’s so very good, Skids. Yes. Yes, just like that…you’re doing _wonderfully_. Did you know what a beautiful smile you have? You do…and I love the way you smile for me. It’s such a joy to have you with me, Skids, my _very personal_ engineer.”

Skids felt his spark grow warm and he basked in the Commandant’s praise. He was still hungry—it seemed to be his natural state, now—but though the stimulation in his valve had gone from hard, firm thrusts last time he’d awoken (and how he’d overloaded, and promptly dropped into recharge), this time the gentle buzzing was enough. His hunger had changed into a desire of a different sort. Confused, he reached out, and when his hands dug into the Commandant’s treads and his nose nestled up against the Commandant’s neck, he realized what he was hungry for. He wanted the Commandant’s warm regard. He wanted more of the soft touches and the praise.

The Commandant chuckled. “Good morning, Skids.”

Skids’s optics came into focus abruptly. Was it morning already? Of what day? Was there something _bad_ about that—some reason he needed to keep track of time?

“Skids?” the Commandant pressed.

“Oh. Good morning, sir,” Skids stammered.

“You’re suddenly very tense, Skids.” In comparison, the Commandant seemed perfectly relaxed. He traced a languid hand down Skid’s side. “What’s troubling you?”

“I’ve been out of it.” Skids shook his head. It seemed as though there was something he ought to remember, but it was lurking furtively on the edge of his thoughts, slipping away every time he attempted to focus on it. He could not identify it or even recall why it was so important. Still, it hovered persistently, nagging at him, telling him something was amiss.

Skids forcefully pushed it away.

The only thing _amiss_ was that he was in berth with the Commandant and instead of accepting this perfect experience for the nirvana it was, he was distracting himself by chasing a ghost tinged with darkness. Skids knew that if he caught that memory, whatever it was, it would only bring him down. 

Skids did not want to remember.

The Commandant slid his hand under Skids’s chin, lifting Skids’s gaze to his own, and Skids smiled and let go of his thoughts.

“How are you feeling?” the Commandant inquired softly. 

_Good_. Skids wanted to say _good_ , but just then his fuel tanks growled in protest. Their rumble sent shudders through his frame. Skids felt dismayed. He’d not noticed how hungry he was, and now he couldn’t deny that his tanks felt empty, so empty, even though traces of fuel still clung to his tongue. It was as though he’d been burning through massive amounts of energy. 

_Don’t think about why. You don’t want to know._

No, all he wanted was to stay here in the Commandant’s arms.

“Are you hungry?” the Commandant murmured. 

Skids wanted to say _no_ , but he also knew better than to lie to the Commandant, particularly when his tanks were rumbling so loudly. “Yes, sir.”

The Commandant sat up, boosting Skids up with him, into his lap. “It’s time for fuel again,” the Commandant murmured as he lifted something off the table beside him. Skids caught sight of the bottle with the long, thick spout, and suddenly he felt a surge of hope. 

Skids knew what this bottle was for. He nodded obediently. “Sucking and fucking.” 

The Commandant recoiled. 

Skids blinked, confused, not sure what he’d done wrong. “Sir?” Maybe he shouldn’t have said what he wanted out loud? “Wasn’t that the deal?” Skids tried desperately. “I behave myself and drink and you…you’d reward me by…”

The Commandant relaxed. “Ah, yes. Yes, that was our deal.” He tugged almost playfully on Skids’s helm. “Though I don’t believe I phrased it in such a _crude_ way.”

Skids flushed. “I’m sorry, sir.”

The Decepticon tilted his head. “Is that something you like in the berth? Dirty talk?”

Skids felt hopeful and afraid at the same time. Was the Commandant offering to indulge Skids’s kink, or would he punish Skids if he didn’t like the answer? Skids didn’t know whether the Commandant wanted to hear a yes or a no. Desperate, he searched for a way to decide and realized that he didn’t have the courage to lie.

“No,” Skids whispered and prayed that his answer was correct.

“Good.” The Commandant’s optics squinted with approval. He leaned close and whispered, “Because you know I’d much rather tell you how lovely you are. And how much I appreciate having such a _devoted_ and _talented_ engineer.”

Skids sobbed with pleasure. Hearing the Commandant’s praise…it was all he wanted. He’d never imagined a life so perfect. He no longer cared about the war, or the Autobots, or whatever threat lingered in the shadows of his mind. He was exactly where he wanted to be, and he would make certain he stayed here, by pleasing the Commandant over and over again.

So when the Commandant lifted the spout to his lips, Skids opened his mouth and took it in eagerly, wrapping his lips around it and hollowing his cheeks, drinking deeply of the fuel. And when the Commandant’s other hand slid down Skids’s body to take hold of the toy in his valve, Skids knew his obedience was about to be rewarded.


	20. Greedy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I saw seriously the best conversation on Tumblr to the effect of "in real life Commandant Tarn being a Very Bad Man and doing Very Bad Things would horrify me, as well it should, but in fiction I cannot get enough of it" 
> 
> I don't know about innocent content creators here -- that comment seems to me as though it were written by someone who thinks I'm actually *not* going to sink my teeth into this story's readership and put you all through an unspeakable wringer in, say, then next 4-ish chapters from now -- but unlike Skids the readership has a choice to nope out at any time....
> 
> For all those times I thought of concepts for this fic and figured I ought to just drink the brain bleach and forget them...and then didn't...I want to express my thanks to this fic's readership.
> 
> ...gonna getcha.
> 
> *

Skids still had the vaguest sense that he ought to be feeling bad, but as he overloaded in the Commandant’s arms, he found that he could no longer remember why. Any attempts to recall were blotted out by a blast of pleasure that blotted out his thoughts and left his body pleasantly numb afterwards, when he lay panting against the Commandant’s chest, gasping cool air into his vents and leaning on the Decepticon for support. He breathed in and swore he could taste particles of his own lubricant and whatever jelly the Commandant used to coat the sex toy in Skids’s valve.

The _toy_. The one that was allegedly a replica of Megatron’s spike. Skids wished the Commmandant would forget the damned toy and just use his _own_ spike. 

Skids thought about that…the Commandant lying him back on the berth and kneeling over and guiding his own spike home into Skids’s valve…and then he startled awake. Skids realized he’d almost drifted off to recharge.

 _No_. Not recharge. He had to stay awake! If he went to sleep he’d never get to frag the Commandant. 

But how long could he keep this up?

Skids had already been in and out of recharge a couple times and he’d lost count of how often he’d overloaded. He was pretty sure, though, that he’d never overloaded this many times in a row before. He’d reset his systems so often he couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten here to this room. He couldn’t reload his memories before he rebooted again. Now he felt so good that he didn’t want to stop, or even think about anything else other than what was happening to his body right now…and what he wanted to happen next.

_The Commandant’s spike…_

The Commandant slowly drew the toy out of his valve and touched its vibrating tip to Skids’s anterior node. Skids cried out and thrust his hips forward, searching for more, even though his anterior node ached and his body instinctively squirmed away from the excess stimulation. His node was so swollen, so sore…it had been stimulated so often…but Skids knew that soon the discomfort would melt away in another rising wave of pleasure. 

Let it hurt. He deserved it. He wasn’t sure why…but he could guess. The Commandant was inflicting this sweet torment on him because he had it coming to him. 

And soon the Commandant would frag him with the toy again, and he must deserve that, too. Everything that was happening was the result of his own doings…and his Commandant’s will.

He was fortunate that his Lord was so generous.

Skids really _didn’t_ deserve his Commandant’s kindness. As the Commandant held him still and brushed the toy against his anterior node, once, twice, Skids began to worry that he’d drift off in the middle of fragging. What kind of way was that to show his thanks for the Commandant’s mercy? 

But he was so…so _tired_. His valve ached. His node throbbed. Pleasure rose relentlessly…but not as sharply as before. Skids felt as though he could drift away on a tide of warmth. His head nodded against the Commandant’s tracked shoulder. 

The toy stopped vibrating. Skids sighed—the gentle pressure of its tip on his node was enough. It felt good without being too intense for his sorely-used node.

Then the toy disappeared entirely.

Skids snapped to full alertness as the Commandant set the toy on the end table. Was he going to get the Commandant’s spike now…or was their session over? “Don’t stop,” Skids cried, and realized too late that he was in no position to give the Decepticon any commands. He scrabbled for an apology. “My Lord, please.”

“Ssssh,” the Commandant said soothingly. His hands stroked Skids’s chest. “Your valve is very tender now. It’s probably bruised. Your node, too.”

“But I’m not _done_ ,” Skids protested.

“Your core temperature is back to normal. Your fans are slowing down. Your overloads are smaller and weaker. And your biolights are dimming….sssh, it’s normal,” the Commandant said as Skids tried to interrupt. “You’re going to recharge, and you’re going to sleep deeply for as long as you need to.”

The Commandant was telling him that his physical needs had been met. Skids should be grateful for such kindness. Yet he still felt as though his spark was being torn from his chest. He was far too exhausted and mentally numb to restrain the moan that crawled up his throat and out of his lips.

“Oh, Skids,” the Commandant said, stroking his helm with deceptively gentle fingers. “Are you still in distress?”

_I should be grateful._

_But I_ need _._

“What is it?” the Commandant inquired.

Skids shook his head. “Just….just being greedy.” Because he had no right to whine to the Commandant, who’d been merciful to him, when he’d deserved nothing but punishment. He wasn’t sure what crime he’d committed—some kind of theft? That didn’t sound like him—he’d never felt much temptation to steal—but it felt right, and if it was, then the Commandant had been far kinder to him than he deserved.

“Skids.” The Commandant’s fingers dug into his neck, so hard and deep that Skids jumped from the sudden, unexpected pain. “You _will_ answer my questions.”

Skids froze. “Y-yes sir,” he stammered. How could he have forgotten that the Commandant was his warden and his master—that the Commandant would hurt him for lies, even lies of omission?

“Are you still in distress?” Red optics blazed in the shadowed eyeholes of the metal mask.

Skids swallowed hard and nodded.

“What is upsetting you, my engineer?”

Skids licked lips gone suddenly dry. “My valve, sir.”

The Commandant’s intense anger was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “It’s tender, isn’t it?”

“It’s _empty_.” Skids was shocked by the whiny note in his voice. “Yes, it’s sore. Yes, it’s tender. But it hurts most because it’s _empty_. And I…” It was shameful to admit, but Skids was done with lying to his Commandant. “I still want to frag,” he whispered, and dimmed his optics in shame.

“ _Oh_ ,” the Commandant said. Once again, he stroked Skids’s head gently. “I wasn’t too rough with you?”

Skids barely bit back a _please_. He knew his frame was exhausted. He knew he couldn’t physically bear too much rough, hard fragging, even if his spark hungered for it. He knew the Commandant could have fragged him until his spark went out and right up until the moment he lost consciousness he would have thanked him, not cursed him, for it.

“No, sir.” Skids gritted his teeth as a wave of lust sent his temperature spiking. Even though his fans sped up to dissipate the heat, he still felt uncomfortably aroused. His valve could tolerate a _little_ more, couldn’t it?

“You need to rest,” the Commandant murmured.

Skids moaned. “I…I want you….I _need_ you.”

“Ah-ah, don’t worry. I have an idea.” Skids swore he could hear a gentle smile in the Commandant’s voice. 

Skids held his breath. The Commandant had been denying him and giving him half-measures all evening. Was Skids finally going to get what he wanted—the Commandant’s spike? 

Did he even dare _hope_ for that?

The Commandant continued. “I think I know a way to make you feel _very good_ while you heal up and recharge.”

That wasn’t a promise of his spike, but still, Skids trusted him that whatever he did, it would feel good. 

Skids realized, with a shock, that he _trusted_ the Commandant. That seemed like a mistake…but really, what choice did he have?

The Commandant reluctantly disentangled himself from Skids. “Now. You’re going to get comfortable in this berth and I’m going to go to my cabinet and get a few things to help you have a very nice rest.”

Skids realized that the Commandant was no longer _asking_ him. Skids was being _told_ what would happen to him. He should be afraid, or at least concerned, but he was so tired. There was something nice about being looked after by the Commandant. Let the mech with rank shoulder the responsibility. 

So Skids obeyed. He settled on his back and rested his head on the pillow and…well, if he spread his legs to show off his valve to best effect, was that really so wrong?

The Commandant opened his cabinet and looked back over his shoulders at Skids and…yes. The Decepticon’s gaze lingered on Skids’s valve. 

_He likes what he sees._ Skids felt a rush of pride and delight.

Then the Commandant lifted his gaze to Skids’s face, and perhaps Skids imagined it, but he was convinced the expression behind the mask was one of approval. Perhaps even desire.


	21. Filled

Fatigue blurred Skids’s thoughts into a watercolour wash of comfort. Skids couldn’t recall details, but he didn’t need to. His frame had been used hard and his body was exhausted, yes, but all the tension and worry and pain and fear had been washed away through hard work and more overloads than he could count. Now Skids rested in a soft berth, his fuel tanks full of medical-grade nourishment, and his frame almost perfectly relaxed.

Almost. His valve, greedy and empty, clenched on nothing.

But not for long. Skids had no reason to worry. The Commandant stood next to his cabinet of delights and Skids knew he could trust his Lord to take care of him.

Skids wasn’t even ashamed to lie here with his legs spread and his valve bare, unabashedly seeking a Decepticon’s approval. Skids never would have guessed that the Commandant was as generous with those who pleased him as he was harsh with those who angered him. Now that he knew it was true, he no longer had to wonder what to do each day. Obeying his Lord’s orders was a delight for _both_ of them.

The Commandant seemed to struggle with wrenching his gaze away from Skids’s frame to look into his cabinet long enough to find what he was looking for. Something to help Skids rest, he’d said. Skids hoped it wasn’t some kind of pill, or one of those sachets some mechs had tucked under their pillows before the war. Skids didn’t want…Huh. He usually wasn’t opposed to drugs, not if they weren’t abused, but he really didn’t want a pill, and he wasn’t sure why. Nor did he think a sachet would stop the craving in his valve.

The Commandant stepped away from the cabinet with two objects in his hands. Skids focused his optics on the first object and found his mouth suddenly salivating. 

It looked like a false spike. A very _long_ and pleasantly _wide_ false spike. It looked rubbery, but Skids bet it would feel plenty hard and firm inside his poor tender valve, with just enough flexibility on its surface layer to mold itself to his every caliper and press…

_Oh please, let that be a false spike, and let it go into my valve._

It wasn’t as detailed as the “Megatron” toy, and it didn’t seem to have the vibration function, but it would definitely do.

The Commandant dipped it into the second object instead. His other hand carried some sort of jar. Lubricant? But there was already a dish of lubricant on the night table.

“This,” the Commandant said as he approached, “is a salve I got from Glit. It soothes injuries while stimulating self-repair systems.”

Skids didn’t care about that. It was all he could do not to sit up in the berth for a better look, but he made himself behave and do as the Commandant had ordered: get comfortable in the berth.

“Some people say the texture is a little wet and messy for use while on duty, but…” The Commandant chuckled. “I think _wet and messy_ are just right for where this is going, don’t you?”

“Not your spike?” Skids whispered. He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.

The Commandant looked startled.

Skids winced. “Inappropriate,” he guessed.

But the Commandant didn’t appear to be angry as he sat at Skids’s bedside. “I’m afraid I have a good deal of paperwork waiting for me.”

Skids didn’t understand how paperwork had anything to do with his current predicament. “Sir?”

“So you couldn’t possibly rest as long as you need to with my spike inside you. I fear I’d never get anything done.” He released the toy, letting it rest in the jar as he stroked Skids’s cheek. “All my attention would be focused on my _very personal engineer_.”

Skids dimmed his optics. He could feel a broad smile stretching his lips. That…that wasn’t a _no_. It was only a _not now_ , and in the meantime he’d rest easy with the hunger in his valve assuaged. How did he ever get to be this lucky?

Skids would not offend the Commandant by asking for a promise of later. He’d cherish his hope instead. He pressed his lips into the Commandant’s palm. “Thank you, sir.”

“I want to caution you,” the Commandant said when he finally reclaimed his hand. Skids could barely stop himself from shaking all with anticipation. “I’m afraid this toy is, well, rather large.”

Skids wanted the biggest spike he could find. What was the problem?

“If it’s _too_ large, I want you to tell me,” the Commandant said sternly. “If you can’t handle this one, I’ll commandeer toys from wherever I have to. I don’t want you doing yourself harm because you think this is the only option. Do you understand?”

Skids’s mouth watered. Oh, he was sure he could take that massive spike. He stared at the toy, glistening with salve, and imagined how it would feel sliding into his valve, stretching him and filling him. 

Nothing could stop him from pretending it was the Commandant’s real spike.

“I said, _do you understand_?” the Commandant growled, and Skids startled out of his fantasy.

“I understand, sir.”

“Good.” The Commandant patted Skids on his shoulder. “Shall we, then?”

_Oh_. Skids couldn’t wait as he moved over to make room for the Commandant, smiling hopefully up at his warden and master.

Briefly, he thought about the “Megatron” toy. Why wouldn’t that one do? Why this new one?

He supposed he would find out. And he guessed that he would enjoy the discovery.

The Commandant knelt at the foot of the berth. Skids waited impatiently for his Lord to tell him where he wanted him. The Commandant guided Skids into position, and Skids went eagerly, thrilling to the feeling of relaxing on the berth with his head cradled on the pillow and his legs spread wide. But not as much as he thrilled to feel the big spike breaching his valve, stretching his calipers, and filling him up.

Much to Skids’s surprise, the toy spike slid almost all the way into his valve, stopping just short of the port near the top. The Commandant pressed forward gently, and Skids felt a slight burn as his calipers refused to give.

Skids whimpered. Was his own body betraying him? “I want it,” he babbled in anguish. “Please, I want it.”

He didn’t even care if it hurt, as long as it _filled him_.

“Easy, Skids,” the Commandant whispered. “You know what to do.”

“Push out against it,” Skids guessed.

“Yes, that’s right.”

Skids smiled as relief flooded through his systems. He _did_ know what to do. He summoned his tired muscles and aching joints to arch his back and thrust with his hips, just a little more, just a few more times before he could rest.


	22. Oasis

Oasis

Skids lay still, letting the sensations wash over him as his valve calipers fluttered against the full length of the big, wet, firm toy spike. Oh, it felt good, to be so full. 

Skids barely noticed that the Commandant was still doing something between his legs. He couldn’t feel whatever the Commandant was fiddling with. He wondered why the Commandant wanted to do anything other than watch his valve swallow up that huge spike. Was he not putting on enough of a show for his Lord? “Sir,” Skids moaned. “Sir, please, tell me what to do.” 

“Brace yourself,” the Decepticon said.

Skids froze, because those words sounded like a warning of impending pain. Why now, when the Commandant had yet to hurt him? And why a warning?

Skids had only just remembered that he had been hurt, once, and warned as well—when the Commandant had ripped his valve panel off. That seemed like so long ago now.

And then a fresh flash of pain bolted through his systems.

Skids gasped. Another flash, hard on the heels of the first. Coming from between his legs. He struggled to sit up and see what was happening to him.

“Sssh, it’s all over,” the Commandant soothed.

Skids felt the mattress lurch as the Commandant stood up. Finally, he dared to look. 

The Commandant had installed a temporary valve panel, held in position across his valve opening by a bolt on either side. The insertion of the bolts had been the cause of the pains. Skids suspected the area around the bolts would be tender for some time, but his frame was already adjusting to their presence, and the tenderness was diminishing next to the throbbing in his valve.

His valve, stuffed full by that huge toy.

And his new valve panel, holding that toy inside him.

His calipers spasmed, as though choking on the massive toy, but when they tightened, the toy had nowhere to go. It slid only a fraction of an inch before the end of it butted up against the closed valve panel. Skids felt his calipers fluttering madly; then they relaxed and the toy sank back in again. 

Skids moaned. He leaned back, flopping onto his back in the Commandant’s berth, and he let himself go. His aching valve felt so good, filled to the brim with that big spike.

“That should keep you for now,” the Commandant said, and Skids could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Tomorrow you’ll go to the medic—ah, ah,” he added, before Skids to protest. “You will go to see Glit, and you’ll get a proper valve panel installed, and some tests to be sure you’ve not suffered any long term damage.”

Skids nodded obediently. Would he…would he get anything, if he was good?

_Would he get to come back here to the Commandant’s berth?_

“Now,” the Commandant said, and Skids felt his spark wrench at the tone in the Commandant’s voice—the tone that made Skids think about a task completed, rather than a tryst concluding. “Is there anything else that you need?”

Skids sobbed and nodded.

“What is it?”

Skids couldn’t speak. His throat tightened. He couldn’t…

“Skids,” the Commandant said, and there was a note of warning in his voice. “You will tell me.”

Skids whimpered. “Would you hold me?”

Silence. Skids didn’t dare look.

“If you have time. Sir. _My Lord._ I’m sorry, I’ve asked so much of you, and I realize you’re a busy mech, but…”

Skids felt the berth sag under the Commandant’s weight. He must be sitting on the edge of the berth behind Skids. A careful hand stroked Skids’s cheek.

“That’s what you need?” the Commandant murmured.

Skids gasped. “Sir…”

“Not so busy,” the Commandant whispered, “that I can’t spare a few moments for my personal engineer.” 

The Commandant sat on the edge of the berth, and Skids rolled towards him. His hip joints ached as he bent his knees and tried to curl himself against the Commandant. It felt strange to hold his thighs together after he’d spent so long spreading them as far apart as he could.

“Here,” the Decepticon said with deceptive gentleness. “Do you want me in the berth with you?”

“Yes, sir.” Skids’s lips felt numb. Dare he ask for such a thing? Could he dare believe such a wish might be granted?

“There,” the Commandant murmured as he eased himself onto the berth and Skids’s mouth found a little round O of wonder. The Commandant folded his arms around Skids and Skids felt his spark sing with joy. “See?” the Decepticon whispered. “After all the good work you’ve done for me, Skids, I don’t mind taking a few moments to show you my appreciation.”

Skids felt his hopes climb. Did that mean…was the Commandant implying that if Skids continued to work hard, maybe in the future he’d be willing to interface with him _properly_? No toys… Skids felt his mind drifting away into dream. No toys, just the Commandant’s spike filling him inside.

Skids almost hated to turn away from the fantasy, but he could dream in his cell any time. He had a precious opportunity to savour the Commandant’s arms right now. He buried his face in the Commandant’s neck and inhaled deeply, pulling the scent of track oil and cordite and fine polish into his systems. The scent of his Commandant.

“If I hold you like this, and stroke you like this,” the Commandant murmured, “will you go to recharge for me?”

“Yes.” Skids dimmed his optics and sighed with pure contentment. “Oh, _yes, sir_.”

The Commandant chuckled. Alarmed, Skids lit his optics, afraid that his Lord was mocking him. Taunting him for his neediness. Laughing at his pain.

But the Commandant’s hand reached down and stroked his cheek and then his back. Fondly, as one might caress a pet. Skids lit his optics long enough to take a peek at his Lord. He couldn’t read the expression behind the Commandant’s mask, but the Decepticon’s voice was warm as he said, “Aren’t you affectionate.”

Skids dared to ask, “Is that bad?” He swallowed hard. “Sir?”

“No, not at all.” The Commandant’s hand settled into a comforting rhythm of smooth strokes. “It’s just unusual, that’s all. There’s so much… _hostility_ , in an environment like this. So much _animosity_. It’s…in a way, it’s _tiring_ , Skids. It’s stale and exhausting and relentlessly toxic.”

Skids had not liked being in Grindcore either. He could not remember exactly why but no, this place was not nice. In fact, there should be nothing good here whatsoever. It felt to Skids as though his current circumstances were some kind of statistical aberration. A hope in a place without hope? A beacon in a previously impenetrable darkness? “And you become used to receiving hostility from everyone,” Skids murmured dreamily.

Skids swore he felt a slight jerk as the Commandant startled beneath him. “Yes, I suppose that’s it,” the Decepticon admitted. 

“Not here,” Skids said. It was so hard to stay focused when he’d overloaded so often, but this was important. “This is our…our oasis. For both of us.”

The Commandant’s breath was a ragged rasp. The Decepticon’s hand stilled on Skids’s forehead. “Can such a thing be real?” the Commandant breathed.

Skids wasn’t sure if his Lord’s words were meant to be taken as a question. Skids certainly had no answers. In fact, he was wondering the same thing himself when sleep finally claimed him.


	23. Hindsight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings, and there's plenty of them: 
> 
> Lots of thoughts about non-con. Emetophobia warning. Major trigger warning for “waking up and realizing you had sex but being unable to remember the details.” Thoughts about violent rape, drugged sex, unconscious sex, and associated fear. 
> 
> For a chapter in which not much actually happens, there’s a lot of uncomfortable stuff in this one. 
> 
> (It can be skipped with minimal damage to your ability to follow the story.)

: Hindsight

When Skids woke up, he felt as though Grindcore had been nothing but one long nightmare.

He was lying on a soft berth with a luxurious chamois wrapped around him. The berth was adorned in silken coverings which were, quite frankly, luxurious. Indulgent, even. Skids stretched, feeling the good kind of sore in his frame—the kind of ache that followed hard use and guaranteed a deep recharge. 

How could he possibly be a prisoner when he had awoken to such decadent surroundings?

He’d had a hard reset in his sleep. Maybe _several_ hard resets; he’d never felt draggy and dopey like this before, not even when he’d woken up in the med bay. His systems were coming online very slowly. His frame was reluctant to respond to his queries. Moving felt like swimming through mud. And for a superlearner, his thought process had slowed to a crawl. His memory banks were booting up, but it was taking far longer than it should.

Too much engex gave Skids a headache. His head, though fuzzy, was ache-free. His frame, on the other hand, felt as though it had been through the wringer. Skids wracked his brain, but no drug he’d ever encountered had ever made him feel like this…as though he’d had his frame worked hard while his mind had been lulled to sleep.

When he drew air into his intakes, Skids’s olfactory sensors detected polish, cordite, and the distinctive aroma of a very high quality brand of grease. Skids didn’t think the scent clinging to the chamois was his own. He didn’t use that much polish. He didn’t take his guns with him to the berth. And he certainly couldn’t afford that sort of grease. Yet something about the scent was familiar, comforting. 

Suddenly Skids realized that the aches in his frame might not be from physical exertion.

He ran a quick diagnostic of his valve, and oh yes, his suspicions were correct. His valve had seen quite a bit of action. His spike had seen some too. But only his valve was still home to what his aching calipers told him must be a very _large_ toy.

_Heh_. Skids rolled onto his back, folded his arms behind his head, and looked up at the ceiling.

He’d taken a lover.

It might have been a one-night fling. There was certainly no sign of another mech in the room. Skids didn’t feel particularly surprised. He’d had his share of short-term and one-night relationships. It wasn’t his fault that he was a superlearner and got bored easily; it wasn’t his fault that he craved novelty in the berth. As soon as he’d figured out these truths about himself, he’d made sure any potential partners were well aware of them before panels started popping open. So, whoever he’d had fun with, they’d probably known what they were in for, and they’d enjoyed the ride and then gone back to where they’d come from.

But _Primus_ , was that toy large.

It made his calipers ache in a way they’d never done before. Skids caught his breath, wondering if maybe he’d crossed a line last night. He knew that taking and worse, holding _too_ large of a spike—or worse, a toy—could permanently re-set the girth of his calipers. Well, permanently unless he got a medic to set them back, but he really didn’t feel like explaining to Ratchet that he’d been playing with oversized sex toys and could he please have his calipers tightened enough to be able to appreciate mechs with standard spikes again?

Skids reached down to open his panel, intending to eject the toy and then re-set his calipers. After that he could determine whether medical intervention was necessary. 

Much to his surprise, he didn’t _have_ a valve panel any more. He had some kind of temporary replacement, riveted into positon. Bolted closed with the toy still inside him.

That was some pretty hard-core stuff, and while Skids didn’t consider himself the type of mech to judge others for their kinks, _when_ had he gotten so kinky himself? He couldn’t imagine stuffing a huge dildo up his valve and bolting a makeshift cover onto himself all on his own volition. Who’d he been playing with? How had the mech convinced him that this was a good idea?

A sudden thought crossed his mind that might explain why his brain was foggy and his valve panel was gone. A partner who was known to inadvertently break things. And people.

_Glitch_?! Had he been messing around with Glitch before something had gone wrong?

And if so, what had he been thinking? He’d never felt attracted to his fellow outlier _that way_ , not even when Trailbreaker had told him that he thought Glitch had a pretty bad crush on Skids.

But Glitch smelled of burned-out circuitry and cheap engex. Not polish and gunpowder and the kind of grease you’d need to slick the tracks of a heavy armoured vehicle…

Skids froze.

_Why was he thinking about a tank?_

A big, utilitarian, _brutal_ mech who nevertheless enjoyed the finer things in life….expensive grease and rare engex blends and _classical music_ …

_The sort of person who would melt other mechs alive._

Revolted at even the _thought_ that he might have fragged some kind of…of psychopathic sicko, Skids sat up, pawing at the makeshift panel. He dug his fingers into the gap between the panel and the rest of his frame and tugged. When that didn’t loosen it, he gritted his teeth and tore it free.

His overextended calipers quickly pushed the toy out of his body, along with a copious rush of fluids. Most of them were his own, though he could see traces of thick, jellied lubricant as well. The giant toy lay on the berth in the midst of the puddle like damning evidence. Skids’s calipers fluttered and relaxed, though they felt… _funny_. Like they weren’t closing anywhere near as tightly as before.

_Damn_. He was going to need to get the medic to re-set them.

Except…

This wasn’t his room. Skids dropped the replacement panel and looked around, trying to figure out where he was. This _definitely_ wasn’t his room in the Outliers’ Dugout and it was way too big to be his quarters in any Autobot base he’d ever been in. The room still had that sort of utilitarian look to it—the ceiling was unfinished, and the walls were that familiar generic shade of Institutional Silver—but the room was also _large_ , and the stereo in the corner was expensive-looking, with a vast library of music sticks, and was that a _bar_? Not just an engex dispenser—a full-scale _minibar_ , with a variety of glassware, some bottles that Skids knew had rare and expensive contents, and a crystal decanter, its contents glowing softly, capped with a topper carved in the shape of…

Skids felt a chill run up his spine.

_A Decepticon insignia._

For a moment he wondered if he was undercover, if he’d finally given in to Prowl’s repeated but—until now—futile requests that he consider taking part in Operation Sweet Oil, a Special Operations initative under Jazz whereby Autobot operatives charmed intelligence of Decepticons by way of seduction. Jazz had wanted Skids for the job, _badly_. He’d said that Skids’s talents would save him from the pitfalls that tripped up so many undercover agents. Or maybe Jazz just appreciated Skids’s skills in the berth on a different level than most of Skids’s other partners.

Skids had said no to joining Sweet Oil. It hadn’t seemed right to use interface—affection—to deceive someone. He hadn’t _entirely_ ruled out the possibility of working with Spec Ops in some capacity, but until now he’d always had reservations. Anyone willing to use another mech in the berth to gain a strategic advantage would be willing to stoop to all manner of morally questionable acts in the name of victory, and Skids was not yet prepared to go that far. He was, after all, a superlearner and he had learned that Jazz could only have a hunter’s eyes under that mirrored visor, and a predator’s heart beneath that easy grin.

Maybe something had changed Skids’s mind. Maybe he’d finally said yes to Prowl and Jazz…but no, likely not. Even as Skids tried to reason through this line of thinking, another possibility—the true possibility—nudged his brain, demanding attention.

_Grindcore_ , it said.

His brain did not want to remember.

Skids furrowed his brow and gritted his teeth and willed his memory banks to function.

And his memory banks were coming online now, at last, and Skids remembered Grindcore: the fitting room, the mouth flowers, the dirty little cell he shared with Quark. The Predators, poor Glit in medbay, Flywheels in the office with his thick Helexian accent, and of course, the Commandant…

_The music_. Skids’s gaze fell on the stereo.

_The smelting pool_. Skids looked at the decanter, which seemed familiar—of course it did, the Commandant usually kept it in his office, and Skids had seen it there when he teleported out of the smelting chamber and materialized in front of the Commandant, who’d been sipping from a tumbler and listening to his music and watching the fruits of Skids’s labour on the engine coils. Watching Quark and the others die from his little oasis of luxury and culture.

_The Commandant._

Skids breathed in again. Polish. Cordite. And expensive grease, the kind a mech would use on tank tracks.

Fine chamois and a room too big, too fine, for Skids to readily believe he was in a prison. This room didn’t look like a prison at all. But Skids had no memory of _leaving_ Grindcore, and the only place inside its walls that wouldn’t look like a prison would be the private quarters of its officers.

And this wasn’t the guards’ barracks, or the simple habs that prison staff would share in groups of two. This was a big room. A nice room. 

Containing the decanter that used to be in the Commandant’s office.

Skids looked down at the spot which his fluids had left on a berth wrapped in fine coverings—a berth large and sturdy enough for a tank.

And he retched.


	24. Live With Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning: Lots of guilt, shame and self-recrimination in this one. Like the previous chapter, warnings for thoughts about different variations of rape, including forced sex, drugged sex, unconscious sex, and the fear associated with it. Description of waking up realizing you’ve had sex that you not only regret but may not have consented to. Description of accidental/non-consensual drug use (in that Skids believes it was an accident for which he is to blame, but the readers know it was a non-consensual set up) and associated manipulation.
> 
> And a thanks to everyone who's left me such kind comments on a fic that takes me outside my comfort zone.

Chapter 21: Live With Yourself

_I fragged the Commandant,_ Skids thought, as his mind blurred with panic.

_Oh, Primus help me. Mortilus help me. Don’t let this be true. Don’t let this be true or else put me out of my misery._

_I interfaced with the Commandant of Grindcore._

Skids felt his throat close and his vision flashing alarms, but he didn’t know just how bad a situation he was in, because he couldn’t _remember_. He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t his fault, that he had been _forced_ to do this—but if that was the case, _why didn’t he remember_? He had no recollection of fighting. 

Skids tried to do the logical thing and investigate the evidence. He wanted to believe that he wouldn’t just meekly obey the Commandant’s demands for sexual favours. Surely he’d voiced some objection. Surely he’d fought back. Made the Decepticon take what he wanted, rather than simply giving it to him.

But Skids found no damage on his frame to suggest that he’d struggled, save for his missing valve panel. There were no scratches on his inner thighs, no dents on his pelvic armour. Only the panel, which had been prised off, as though someone couldn’t wait for it to open.

_Maybe it was me. Maybe I pulled it off._ Skids didn’t want to think about that.

His valve was stretched— _very_ stretched—but not torn. Other than the signs of recent interface— _oh, Primus, that toy_ —and his physical fatigue, he seemed unharmed. 

Which made no sense. He couldn’t imagine that he would _ever_ frag a Decepticon willingly. But if he’d struggled, surely the Commandant would have been rougher. Crueler. 

_Drugged?_ He ran a cross check of his systems, not knowing what to think. He wasn’t feeling any of the aftereffects from any drug he’d ever sampled before. He supposed it was possible he’d been doped up with something new, but…he was a _superlearner_. He’d been bored enough to read Ratchet’s medical books for fun. His systems should be coming up with flags if he’d been hit with any of the more common drugs.

_There. A hit._

… _Interface inhibitor_?

Skids felt more confused than ever. An inhibitor would explain why he’d had to pry his own panel off but…who tried to force interface on someone by giving them a drug that made them _less_ able to frag? Most of the mechs Skids knew who took interface inhibitors were mechs who wanted to be celibate in theory but struggled with controlling their desires in practice. The inhibitors took off the edge; they made temptation easier to resist. Some mechs took them for religious reasons, such as the Circle of Light, and others took them because they were in monogamous relationships and they struggled with temptation when their mates were posted far away.

_None of this makes sense._

_Keep looking. There’s a clue you’ve missed._

Skids noticed that the spot on the bed was actually a cocktail of three different substances. His own lubricants, yes. The thick jelly of artificial lube. And the light, tangy scent of something that smelled medicinal. Skids shivered. Salve.

He’d been _taken care of_. Rescued from someone? Patched up by medics and put to sleep? But why here in what was likely the Commandant’s quarters? And what had happened to require medical care? 

Why couldn’t he _remember_?

He thought about the guards making good on some of their crude threats. His fuel pump hammered wildly; his fuel tanks churned. He thought about the Commandant coming along in the nick of time and halting them, picking Skids up in his arms, carrying him off to take care of him…

Skids clenched his fists and forced himself to inhale slowly and steadily. He couldn’t afford to panic over worst-case scenarios and he certainly couldn’t afford to daydream weird fantasies about _the Commandant_ of all people. Logic. Facts. What were the last things he recalled? 

His memory was balky, as though reluctant to cooperate, but slowly he squeezed out a recollection, and then another.

Days in isolation, with no contact with anyone else, no fuel, and worst of all, nothing outside his own head with which to occupy his mind, had collaborated to wreak havoc on his memories. Time dilated and stretched; just rolling over could seem to take hours, but a moment sitting on the edge of his bunk could leave his joints seized up as though that “moment” had actually lasted all day. He’d been half out of his head when the Decepticon had come to him and asked him to…

…clean?

Yes. Clean his office. Far below Skids’s previous duties, but he was a prisoner…he couldn’t complain. 

Skids felt a wall, blank and grey, come slamming down over his memories. Obliterating them… _no_. Not erasing them. Just hiding them. Burying them somewhere that he couldn’t access.

What was wrong with him? Why did he have to fight his own mind to get the answers he needed?

He imagined himself grabbing the bottom of the wall and pulling upward, as though the wall were in fact a garage door. Reluctantly, it rose. He saw himself cleaning the Commandant’s office and pausing in his duties over the Commandant’s desk.

Over the little box of candies set out on the corner of the Commandant’s desk.

Memories barrelled into his mind with the force of a falling meteor, obliterating his consciousness while he tried to process them. For a moment his mind and his vision both went black. But when he came back to himself, all the memories were clear and present, pummelling him relentlessly with the truth of his situation.

He’d stolen those candies and thought he’d been so clever.

But they were intended for sex games. The games the Commandant had been playing with Thunderwing. One candy had been a powerful aphrodisiac—a kind of drug Skids had no familiarity or experience with. The other had been an interface inhibitor. Thunderwing or the Commandant or both were obviously kinky slaggers. Who knew what other substances were in the candies in that box?

So there Skids had been, alone in the Commandant’s room as the candies’ effects kicked in. Desperately trying to service himself to relieve his rising heat. Utterly unable to as the inhibitor overrode his attempts. Reduced to a mewling wreck by the time the Commandant walked in. On the floor, on fire with lust, his valve leaking through his plating, ripe for the taking.

The Commandant had taken him here to this berth, and…

Skids steeled his nerves as he braced for the next memory…

_The Commandant helped me to open my panel. He handed me a brand-new sex toy. And then…he tried to_ leave _._

_It was_ me _who begged him to stay._

_It was_ me _who was too far gone to use the toy without assistance._

_He_ helped _me. Because I_ needed _him to._

Skids shuddered, not wanting to believe, but his memories continued to play, relentless, damning. The Commandant had provided him with the toy and offered him privacy in which to use it to burn off his excess charge. Skids was the one who had failed. _He_ had stolen the candies. _He_ had tried to hide their effects. And in the end he had needed the Commandant’s help to save his life.

_Self-harm is a punishable offense._

And _once_ Skids was no longer in danger of death by overheating, had he taken the toy and the offered privacy and fixed his mistake? _No_. He had begged the Commandant for larger toys. He had begged the Commandant to use them on him. And in the end he had just wanted to be near the Commandant, toys or no toys.

_He stayed because I_ wanted _him to. Because I_ begged _him to._

Skids felt his cheeks heat even as his plating crawled with revulsion. He remembered that _he_ had put all his superlearner’s skills to use thinking of ways to seduce the Commandant. Touching the Decepticon. Easing his body against the tank’s. Convincing the Commandant that he deserved to take a day off. Asking the Commandant to please indulge himself…to indulge both of them.

_I guess I was part of Operation Sweet Oil after all._

Then Skids felt a chill jolt through him, like an electric shock, but one that left a cold, icy sensation in its wake.

_Operation Sweet Oil seduced Decepticons for the good of the Autobot cause._

_To get intelligence._

_To manipulate the enemy._

_I seduced the Commandant of Grindcore_ to slake my own lust.

Skids choked, disbelieving. He hadn’t traded his body for the freedom of his fellow Autobots. He hadn’t coaxed the Commandant to offer better treatment for the prisoners—like no more mouth flowers—in gratitude for his generous service. He hadn’t asked for anything but the Commandant’s touch, and he’d have _done_ anything to get it. 

Skids hadn’t used his body as a bargaining chip.

Fragging the Commandant wasn’t the means.

It was the _end._

He hadn’t cared two scraps about the Autobot Cause yesterday. All he’d cared about was the Commandant and getting fragged and seeing how close he could come to convincing the Warlord of Grindcore that it was not only ethical but _desirable_ to fuck his prisoners. 

Or at least one of them. Him.

Skids looked down at the toy lying on the berth and sobbed. His body was sore and his head was foggy, and somewhere along the line, he’d lost his soul.


	25. Professional

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We still have a ways to go...

“Skids.” His Master’s voice was calling to him. “Wake up.”

Skids wasn’t sleeping. He’d cried himself into recharge, and after a short time of merciful oblivion—his chronometer was offline, so he didn’t know how long he’d been resting, only that it was not long enough—he’d woken up, and after that had slept poorly. Weird dreams and nightmares kept waking him up as his brain played variations on a relentless refrain: _you wanted to frag the Commandant_.

Mixed up in all that was the revelation that he and the Commandant had not interfaced the traditional way—spike in valve—and not for Skids’s lack of trying. 

_You should be lucky that even a murderous, sadistic Decepticon warlord had a certain sense of ethics._

Instead, Skids felt… _ugly_.

_Am I so unattractive that the Commandant didn’t want me even when I was laid out and begging for him?_

No, he didn’t feel fortunate. He felt disgusting. Too hideous for the Commandant to want to frag. So loathsome that he’d craved a good hard reaming from the monster who’d killed so many of his fellow Autobots.

And now, though Skids wished for oblivion, he was not fortunate enough to receive it. It was time for him to wake up and face the day.

Face the rest of his life.

“Skids?” The Commandant called him again. 

Skids hastily sat up in the berth. “Yes, sir?”

The purple Decepticon stood in the doorway of the room. Skids tried not to notice how the Commandant’s tracks hung behind him like a cape, swaying in counterpoint to his movements. The Commandant tossed something at Skids, which Skids reflexively caught. A damp cloth. “Wipe yourself up and come out to my office.” Then he threw something else—a long robe tied up with a cloth belt. “Put that on.”

There was nothing to do but comply. The Commandant left before Skids could even contemplate putting on a show with the washcloth to try to entice the Decepticon to…

_Oh Primus what is wrong with me?_

_Just the residual aphrodisiac in your system. It has to be. It’s the drugs, not_ me _. I’ll stop thinking like this once the substance wears off._

_Just gotta wait for it to wear off._

The Commandant didn’t even wait to see if Skids obeyed his orders. He left, disappearing through the doorway, his tracks swinging behind him. Skids felt a horrible, irrational lance of fear that the Commandant couldn’t even be bothered to watch him.

Hands trembling, Skids cleaned himself up as ordered, and then studied his reflection in the Commandant’s mirror. He could barely stand the sight of the Matrix insignia on his cheek. He didn’t deserve to wear it, not anymore. He’d have foresworn his own God for the Commandant’s spike.

_And where was God when I was suffering?_ Skids thought, with an anger that surprised him. _I cried for help and the Devil answered._

The Commandant’s words from that terrible day in the smelting chamber echoed in his mind. _I’m not sure about Heaven, but I’m pretty sure Hell exists._

Skids pushed his finger into his tender valve, testing his calipers. They still felt stretched. Skids didn’t know if they’d reset to normal again in time or not.

_Not that it matters. I’m not going to be fragging anybody again, not while I’m in here._

He wasn’t sure what to do with the big sex toy. How did one return one’s warden’s intimate playthings? Skids settled for rolling it up in the washcloth and setting it on the bedside table. Then he put on the robe and tied the belt around himself before leaving the room.

Skids came to attention in the doorway. “Skids, reporting as ordered.”

The Commandant was hard at work at his desk, shuffling datapads around. He seemed barely interested in Skids. “Hm, good. Talon will escort you to the med bay.”

Skids cringed. “Sir?”

The Commandant looked up from his desk at last and gave Skids his full attention. “Don’t worry. I’ve confirmed that Glit is on duty this morning. I want him to give you a full examination, and I can assure you that he will be a consummate professional.”

Skids gulped. “I feel fine,” he stammered, but of course that wasn’t true. Not when his optics kept crawling over the Commandant’s frame and his memory kept supplying him with extremely pleasant recollections and his valve….his treacherous valve tingled, as though preparing for another round.

“Skids.” The Commandant lowered his chin, glaring at Skids through the holes in his mask. “I will _not_ have my personal engineer suffering after-effects through _my_ failings.”

It sounded like a threat, and it contained a very clear demand for compliance, but Skids felt warm static in his spark. The Commandant was looking after him. That felt… _nice_.

“Yes, sir,” Skids said warmly.

“Step outside and go with Talon. He will be your escort. Dismissed.”

Skids did as he was told, but he couldn’t resist taking one more glance back over his shoulder at the Commandant. The static in his spark did not go away.

#

Skids felt grateful for the robe as he followed Talon down the corridor. Thanks to the thick cloth, nobody could see that Skids’s valve panel was missing. Talon, for his part, didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in why Skids was wearing a robe, or why they were going to the med bay. Talon was usually a bit more talkative, and Skids suspected that the Commandant had told him to mind his manners.

Skids liked the thought of the Commandant telling the guards how to treat his personal engineer.

That office mech—Flywheels—passed by on the other side of the hall. He whistled and reached out to touch Skids’s cloak. Seconds later, Flywheels found himself pinned to the wall by a very angry Talon, who made it clear that Skids was not to be touched.

This encounter finally caused the spark-static to fuzz and dissipate. Skids’s world had become very surreal, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. He’d become what he hated: the Commandant’s pet.

But he hadn’t done anything _wrong_.

And it felt good to be appreciated. To be valued. To be treated as though he were special. 

Talon transferred Skids to Glit’s care at the med bay door. Skids looked at the felinoid medic and felt an unutterable relief to discover that he had no desire whatsoever to frag Glit. Come to think of it, he hadn’t thought about fragging Talon, or Flywheels, or anyone else all morning. The drug had finally worn off.

Except _then_ Skids thought about sitting on the Commandant’s lap and distracting him from his datapads, and didn’t _that_ set his valve to tingling. Skids hastily pushed the thought away. The last thing he needed was to look aroused during a medical examination.

Glit was as professional as his reputation suggested. He took an energon sample and screened it for contaminants; then he gave Skids a physical examination. Skids felt somewhat ashamed to lie on the table and display his valve for the doctor. Glit simply went about his business, installing a new valve cover, and Skids distracted himself by observing the medic’s specialized tools that allowed him to work without proper hands. Skids tried not to think about how the new valve cover was already ready for installation. _Obviously the Commandant talked to Glit about what he’d be doing with me during this appointment._

Then Glit set a small device on the examining table, activated it, and turned to Skids. “Are you all right?” the doctor inquired.

Skids stared at the device. It was a scrambler. Glit had arranged for their conversation to be unmonitored.

“Yes?” Skids stammered, not sure what the medic meant. 

Glit’s optics narrowed. “You weren’t force-fed those substances? The aphrodisiac or the inhibitor?”

“N-no. I ate them by accident. That’s the truth.”

“The wear on your spike?”

“Self-inflicted while trying to, uh, to get relief.”

“And your valve?”

“I don’t know what the Commandant told you, but I…” Skids swallowed. “I consented to everything.”

It felt as though he’d made it more real—more _true_ —by saying it out loud.

Glit frowned. “You can’t consent when you’re under the influence of intoxicants.”

Skids’s brow furrowed. “I know, but…okay, look, once I realized what had happened, I had to do something about it, okay? And everything we did…which wasn’t even actual interface, I mean, the Commandant would _not_ open his spike panel…but everything we did do, it was what _I_ wanted.” Skids swallowed and interrupted before Glit could inquire why Skids had not simply reported for sick parade. “You get why I didn’t want to come here to medbay first, don’t you? You know about Sauder, right?”

Glit hug his head. “Yes. I know about Sauder.” He was obviously upset.

Skids felt badly for the Decepticon medic. “Hey. You’re a good guy, Glit.”

The medic looked up at Skids with a worried expression. 

“Yeah, not a compliment from an Autobot, I know. But…thank you. Sincerely. For being concerned about me. But I’m okay. The Commandant…he helped me. And I wanted him to.”

Glit licked his upper lip in an animalistic gesture that Skids didn’t understand. “All right,” he murmured. He raised his paw over the scrambler, but he didn’t turn it off. He appeared to be deliberating.

“Glit?” Skids asked.

Glit took a deep breath into his intakes and said quickly, “Be advised that the Commandant cares for only two things: promoting the Decepticon Cause, and his own indulgences. I’m not certain in which order.” The medic fixed Skids in a surprisingly harsh glare. “Don’t you forget that.”

And before Skids could reply, Glit slammed his paw down on the scrambler. It shattered into fragments. Skids guessed that the device had been designed to come apart at a single blow, collapsing into pieces too tiny to identify. 

“…fix it,” Glit said casually, as though he’d been interrupted in mid-sentence. “At any rate, Skids, I’ve recommended that the Commandant permit you to rest for the day and resume light duties tomorrow. I want you to take this topical cream and apply as needed. Do you have any questions?”

“Uh, no,” Skids said, but in fact he had many questions. First and foremost: why Glit’s relentless ethical code—the code that had landed him in Grindcore—had seen fit to try to warn Skids about the Commandant.

The Commandant was evil. Skids was already well aware.

Skids was halfway back to his cell with Talon before he realized he’d forgotten to ask Glit about the stretched calipers in his valve.


	26. Fantasy

Skids could never have imagined that he would be grateful for fatigue, but there it was. He’d felt a terrible apprehension when Talon had returned him to his private cell, and no wonder: seeing the tiny room and his little berth and his meager possessions had reminded him of the days of mind-numbing boredom and starvation he’d suffered here. He’d _rather_ be spread-eagle in the Commandant’s berth than trapped in this claustrophobic steel box again.

He’d paced the room for a while, just for something to do, but his memories of that unbearable limbo when he’d been so hungry overlapped his present and left him disoriented and confused. The barren cell had no visual reminders to help him distinguish recent memories from old ones—nothing had changed since the Commandant had summoned him to his office, and yet, Skids felt as though he’d become a completely different person in that time.

Skids flopped down on his berth, trying to think of something to distract him, and his mind had settled on the only real novelty of the past week: his encounter with the Commandant.

His valve still felt tender. He applied some of the cream he’d been given, which soothed the ache in his valve, and then he rubbed a little more cream on his poor abraded spike. That felt…yeah, that felt nice.

He imagined the Commandant’s hand wrapped around his spike.

_Mmmm_ ….

Skids startled when he realized what he’d been doing.

No. _No!_ If he was going to self-service, he should imagine interfacing with someone _good_. Trailbreaker, or Windcharger, or…

_Been there. Done that. Boring._

_Okay. What about Prime, then? Your buddy who you never laid before he became your boss._

Skids had often fantasized about what might have happened had Orion Pax not become Prime. Today, though, the old fantasy seemed dull and stale. He felt his spike softening as he lost interest.

_Fine. Then don’t imagine anyone in particular. Imagine some…some mystery bot. Anonymous lover._

_Mech in a mask._

Suddenly he was thinking of the Commandant again, and his spike was good and hard again, and the cream made his spike feel so slick and wet, and his hand pumped harder, and… 

_Primus damn it!_

Why couldn’t he stop thinking about his warden?

Skids hesitated. Did it matter… _really_ matter…if he jacked himself off while thinking about the Commandant? Soundwave wasn’t stationed here; nobody else could read Skids’s mind. It was a private fantasy, wholly contained within his own head, and it was make-believe. Not reality.

It was perfectly fine to think about the Commandant in the context of an imaginary scenario.

Skids surrendered. He sprawled back on his berth, spike in hand, and imagined the Commandant behind him, as he had been not that long ago. One arm wrapped over Skids’s chest. The other hand gripping Skids’s spike.

Skids thrust with his hips and imagined the Commandant’s smoky-seductive voice whispering in his audio. _Not so quickly, my dear and very personal engineer. Let’s take our time and savour this…_

Skids held out as long as he could before he finally allowed himself to imagine the Commandant whisper those three precious words: _come for me._

And Skids’s frame obeyed its Master.

#

Skids awoke from recharge to the sound of banging on his cell door. “Wake up!” Snare hollered from the other side. “Time for work detail, Autobot!”

Skids sat up and realized his panel was still hanging open. He quickly closed it and ran his tarp over his thighs, hoping he managed to wipe away all evidence of his shameful fantasy.

_Act normal. Snare can’t read your mind._

_Just another day at work._

Indeed, the day _was_ very normal. Today Skids was marched to the bilge pump down in Grindcore’s basement and told to fix the fluid flow problem in the sluicers. Skids hadn’t studied plumbing very much, so it took him a little while to figure out how the machinery worked, and a little longer to discover what was happening, what _ought_ to be happening, and how to turn A into B. Once he had it figured out, though, there was nothing to do but a lot of tedious, fiddly adjustments on the pumps, and _that_ left his mind free to wander back to the Commandant.

It felt wrong, that Skids’s life could be so…ordinary…after what had happened to him. It felt as though everyone ought to be able to tell, just from looking at him, that he had been changed. It felt as though the entire world should shift in response to the events of that fateful night.

Instead, his life was back to the way it had been previously. Just another tedious day in Grindcore.

Except for his ever-present fantasies of the Commandant and his increasing desire to scratch the little Matrix off of his cheek.

Skids indulged himself carefully. Nothing too racy. Nothing that would have his panel leaking while he worked. Nothing that would give any hint to the guards what he might be thinking about. Skids thought about having drinks in the Commandant’s office—that wasn’t so perverse, surely? He’d even done it before. Listening to music, sipping a drink in the Commandant’s office.

Except he’d hated it before. He’d done it because he had missed soft chairs and delicious snacks. He’d done it under the illusion of gaining intelligence. He’d done it so he could get a little buzzed and forget, for a moment, that the other Autobots hated him. 

But today, daydreams about an evening in the Commandant’s office kept his mind busy while his body went through the motions of tedious tasks. And those daydreams stayed with him as Snare marched him through the corridors, locked him in his cell, and, mercifully, provided him with some fuel. Once the fuel was consumed, though, Skids could no longer stop his “date with the Commandant” fantasies from proceeding towards their inevitable conclusion. There was nothing else to do in this cell. Nothing else to stave off the looming spectre of boredom.

Skids wondered if he’d be able to get some more of that cream from the medbay. At the rate he was going, this pot wouldn’t last him long.

#

The Commandant of Grindcore had long ago made a policy about not working late on a regular basis. Running himself into the ground wouldn’t serve the Cause in the long run. Furthermore, Grindcore was a terribly depressing environment, and his job meant he had to spend so much time there. He’d done what he could to make his office welcoming, and once his day’s work was done, then unless some emergency demanded late hours, he made a point of taking some time to put on some music, have a drink, and relax, maybe with a book, or an opera on holovid.

He had something lovely to watch tonight, but it wasn’t a holovid.

The Commandant poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter on his sideboard and gently replaced the stopper, which was carved in the shape of a Decepticon insignia. He added a clean straw to the goblet, considered the drink, and then added a thoughtful garnish to the rim of the glass. Perfect. 

He settled back into his overstuffed chair, selected the security surveillance program, typed in the code of a certain specific camera, selected full-screen view, and leaned back in his chair.

The screen showed a full view of Skids’s cell, and the camera’s angle was almost ideal. The Commandant had a lovely view of Skids lying back on his berth, legs spread, spike extended. Skids had buried two of his fingers in his own valve, buried them to the hilt. As the Commandant watched, Skids added a third.

Skids’s head was propped up on the pillow, giving the Commandant the ability to read his lips. There was no sound, but the Commandant was almost certain that Skids was whispering his designation.

Delicious, the Commandant thought as he sipped from his straw.

The drink wasn’t bad, either.


	27. Routine

Another day. Another morning, waking up in his cell. Another Predator—Skyquake, this time—yelling for him to wake up. Skids didn’t know what he’d do once he caught up on sleep and no longer had the oblivion of nightly recharge to blot out the fear of boredom. Already he’d tossed and turned restlessly last night, as though his frame were telling him that he was recovered and once-a-week recharge would again be enough.

The one good thing was that maybe, today…maybe today he’d get to see the Commandant.

Skids told himself, as Skyquake marched him down the corridor, that he should be more apprehensive. The Commandant had now had several days to change his mind about being forgiving. 

Unfortunately, during those several days, Skids’s fantasies had bred and multiplied. 

Maybe it would be _good_ to see the Commandant if only to remind himself _why_ those fantasies belonged only in the realm of make-believe. Remind himself what kind of monster the Commandant truly was.

Mercy had been an aberration. The Commandant doubtlessly considered Skids’s skills to be worth his time. Skids bit his lip as Skyquake pointed him towards the Commandant’s door. Skids couldn’t even guess what torment was in store for him.

Or why his damned treacherous spark insisted on filling him with joy.

#

Skids heard the cell door locking behind him sixteen hours later and couldn’t fight down his feelings of disappointment.

Numb, Skids walked across his room and took a seat on his bunk. His treacherous valve tingled. Skids cursed his own frame, disgusted. He folded his hands in his lap and watched them trembling.

Had he honestly thought…?

Yes. He honestly had. He’d sincerely believed that at some point today the Commandant would take him back to his private quarters for a reprise of the other day. He’d waited to be told he _owed_ the Commandant for his generosity and he was now expected to return the favour…given the aptitude he’d shown with his mouth, and the obvious greed of his valve, there were several ways he could show his gratitude.

Instead, the Commandant had taken him to fix the power grid in the officer’s quarters. They’d shared fuel at midday, as usual, but the Commandant had been wholly engrossed in a datapad and barely paid Skids any mind. At the end of the workday the Commandant had walked him back here and locked him in with hardly so much as a by-your-leave…

…and instead of feeling _lucky_ , Skids felt _shortchanged_.

_What? Did you actually want to fuck the Commandant?_

Skids laid awake for a long time, looking up into the dark, wondering what it would mean if the answer was _yes_.

#

Skids worked hard on today’s job: repairing fans in the ceiling ventilation ducts. He didn’t know what else to do. If he did a good job, maybe the Commandant would notice him… _really_ notice him. Favour him with attention more beyond the nonchalant distance Skids had suffered ever since that fateful night when he’d eaten those candies. If Skids kept himself busy, maybe he’d have some relief from the thoughts that tormented him at night and during every other moment of downtime.

Skids wanted to believe that the aphrodisiac was still in his systems. Perhaps one or two of the nanobots had buried themselves in his neural net, stimulating perverse cravings and unwarranted arousal. Unfortunately, everything his superlearner’s mind had picked up about nanobots told him that such a scenario was unlikely. These nanos had been programmed to go offline when their host overloaded. And Skids had overloaded so very often since he’d eaten those candies.

Every night, for example, alone in his cell.

No, it was time for Skids to face the grim reality: he was hot for the Commandant. 

He knew that his little crush was disgusting, but he also couldn’t help his attraction. He was not going to stop feeling this way about the Commandant just because he told himself it was wrong. 

_Okay. Deep breaths. Think._

He couldn’t change his desires, and there was nothing wrong with fantasies, just as long as he didn’t try to act on them. There was his answer. This was Grindcore; he ought to take his pleasures where he could, for his own mental resilience if nothing else. 

He would immerse himself in his work outside his cell, distracting himself with his job so as not to become inappropriately aroused in front of the other Decepticons—or the other prisoners. He would indulge his fantasies after lights out in the privacy of his cell. And he would absolutely, positively, definitely _not_ do anything to enact those fantasies in real life.

His vow lasted until that afternoon, when the Commandant came to check his work.

#

Skids felt his spark flare in his chest when the door opened and the Commandant’s distinctive silhouette appeared in the doorway. He braced his feet on the ladder and quickly turned his attention back to the last fan, twisting connector wires together. His fingers, so clever just a moment ago, became clumsy; he fumbled and almost dropped the wires. _Look busy_ , he chided himself. _The Commandant likes it when you’re busy._

“Hello, Skids,” the Commandant purred and Skids felt his spark flare again. 

Skids listened to the Decepticon’s footfalls as he approached. He bit his lip, hoping the pain would clear his mind just enough to finish attaching this connection. 

“How are the fans coming along?” the Commandant inquired, and Skids was grateful he’d just finished the job before that lyrical voice distracted him. He couldn’t help but feel thrilled that the Commandant was finally, _finally_ taking some interest in him.

“All done, sir,” Skids reported. He started to turn around, taking a step down on the ladder and lowering his head out of the ceiling duct, when he realized that the Commandant was _right behind him_ and if he kept moving he’d bump right into him. He had to grab at the ladder to avoid a fall.

_I want to. I want to touch him._

But the Commandant would not appreciate a staggering, stumbling Autobot, so Skids straightened himself up and looked up at the duct, where the final fan was now spinning as it should. He watched from the corner of his optic as the Commandant looked up too.

Skids knew the gesture was mostly for show. The Commandant was not an engineer, and wouldn’t be able to tell if Skids had done a good job or a half-assed jury rig that would break again without warning. The Decepticon’s presence here was solely to confirm that Skids was working, and to remind him that misuse of his time—escape attempts, loafing, that sort of thing—would be noticed and punished.

 _What about thinking how I can pleasure you best?_ The thought crossed Skids’s mind unbidden.

Skids was shocked at himself, but his hands trembled and he almost lost his grip on the ladder. His knees felt weak, as though they would not bear his weight. 

He wished the Commandant would wrap an arm around him and hold him securely, as he had that fateful night, but this was _not_ that fateful night and Skids had no right to ask such a thing.

_Please. Hold me._

“That looks good,” the Commandant said approvingly, and Skids felt his mood lift, but even that bit of cheer was like a single pebble thrown into a deep dark well.

 _Sir. I want you. Touch me,_ Skids thought desperately, but the Commandant did not move. He simply stood there, bare inches away, considering the fans. Utterly oblivious to Skids’s attempts to influence his actions with his mind.

Skids took a deep breath and took another step down the ladder. _I’ll beg. I’ll do whatever you want._

The back of his leg brushed against the Commandant’s arm. 

Skids held his breath, wondering if the Decepticon would be angry. Berate him for being clumsy, for crowding him. 

_Curl your hand around my thigh. Pull me down. Take me._

Skids hung in limbo between fantasy and fear.

“We’ll do the fans in H block tomorrow,” the Commandant said nonchalantly, as though he wasn’t even aware that Skids’s body was touching his. “Skyquake will be here shortly to return you to your quarters.”

 _I got away with it,_ Skids thought with giddy excitement as the Commandant stepped back, breaking the contact. _That means maybe I can get away with it again._

But then the Commandant opened the door and stepped out into the corridor, and Skids realized that there was a downside to his victory.

Yes, he’d touched the Commandant…and the Commandant _hadn’t even noticed._

Skids sagged, defeated, before the door even closed.

#

The Commandant pressed his back to the corridor wall, curling his hands into fists until his fingertips bit into his palms. It had taken all of his self-restraint not to grab Skids off that ladder, throw him over his shoulder and march him straight back to his berth…but no, that wouldn’t do. Such a primitive display would accomplish nothing. 

His spike ached for release and his system throbbed with heat and he swore he could _smell_ the alluring scent of Skids’s arousal.

He ought to feel satisfied that his plan was working. The drugs were long gone from Skids’s system, but the _lust_ was not, and combined with neglect, it was making Skids bold. Reckless.

It was time for the next step.

The Commandant shoved away from the wall, opened his datapad, and put in a requisition order for a decanter of sparkling energon—the non-intoxicating variety.

He’d never had much use for the stuff before. But he now knew, without a doubt, that he didn’t dare consume his usual intoxicants tomorrow or he would _ruin_ his plan before it could truly bear fruit.

He marched away down the corridor. Each step was uncomfortable given the state of his spike. The Commandant realized, with some irony, that to get what he wanted he would also have to inflict a certain measure of suffering upon himself.


	28. Drink With The Devil

“Finished already?” the Commandant inquired from the other end of the couch.

Skids held up his empty glass and tried to look guileless. The strains of a delicate aria filtered through the Commandant’s office from his high-quality sound system: music that the rest of Grindcore was not enjoying tonight. This recording was solely for the Commandant and his special guest. 

Someone had even placed purple curtains over the dead husks decorating the walls. Skids tried not to think about why he was so relieved not to be watched by either the living or the dead as he shared drinks with the Commandant.

“I don’t blame you,” the Decepticon purred. “It _is_ a lovely vintage, isn’t it? Would you care for some more?”

For a moment, Skids wondered if the Commandant would be suspicious if he said yes. He usually said he was fine; he’d always been worried about losing control in the Commandant’s presence. But in that brief moment of silence, the Decepticon came to his own conclusion and topped up Skids’s glass.

Skids leaned forward, hoping for some _accidental_ contact, but the Commandant poured quickly and withdrew his arm before Skids had a chance to do much more than brush his fingers against the Commandant’s hand. Skids covered his disappointment by taking a sip from his cup and leaning back against the cushions littering the couch.

How many drinks had that been? Four? Five? Skids realized he’d lost track. His head buzzed pleasantly, and the cushions felt so soft against his frame, and surely he could have one more. He’d sip it slowly, this time. Because finishing up and going back to his cell was the last thing he wanted to do.

Drinking with the Commandant was always a tricky proposition. Skids had always been hesitant to say no to anything he was offered, lest the Decepticon use it against him—after all, why waste fuel on someone who’d just declined a drink, never mind that regular energon wasn’t intoxicating and the Commandant’s vintage engex definitely was? On the other hand, Skids knew very well that becoming intoxicated in the presence of Decepticons was a recipe for disaster/ 

Even _now_ , lost as he was, there was a possibility that they could pump his memory for information that they could use against the Autobots. And even irredeemable as he was, he was not yet ready to tell the enemy everything they might want to know. So Skids usually nursed his drinks, knowing the Commandant wouldn’t offer him a second until he’d finished his first, and hoping the Commandant would run out of time to spend on him before he ran out of fluid in his glass.

It had worked until tonight.

Tonight, Skids had spent a long day working on the power grid right here in the Commandant’s office. He’d thrown himself into the work, if only to find a way to escape the way his thoughts kept coming back to his night in the Commandant’s berth. Total immersion was the only way to forget that the Commandant was right there in the same room with him, occasionally looking up from his work to glance at Skids. Because if Skids thought about that, then he found himself arranging his frame to accentuate the length of his legs, the arch in his back, even a saucy peep at his panels as he bent over a circuit board…

Primus deliver him from his own carnal thoughts.

When his work was done, the Commandant had offered him a celebratory drink. And, much to Skids’s surprise, it was only then he’d realized that the Commandant’s chairs were gone. Out for reupholstering, the Decepticon had said nonchalantly, but there was always the couch. So Skids had sat on one end, and the Commandant had sat on the other, and Skids had drunk far more quickly than usual as he tried to forget about the Commandant’s warm and powerful frame just a few scant inches away from him and the kind of thoughts the sight of him was inspiring in Skids’s filthy sewer of a mind. 

It hadn’t worked, of course. Asking for his first refill had given him an excellent opportunity to brush up against the Commandant. For his second, he’d offered to top up both glasses, and had he only imagined the smile behind the Commandant’s mask as Skids served him? Skids had deliberately gone for his third refill as the Commandant was refilling his own glass; their hands had touched and their gazes had met. 

Skids was already planning another “accidental” lean up against the Commandant’s body, just as soon as he could think of a reason to justify moving to the other side of the couch. In the meantime, he contented himself with hoping that the Commandant would receive his psychic messages: _why don’t you come over here? I’ll make it worth your while._

Skids wondered if there were long-term effects from waiting so long to burn those aphrodisiacs off—if the nanobots had permanently altered his systems. It seemed he was half-revved all the time now, and his fantasies kept coming back to being held in the Commandant’s powerful arms while the Decepticon drove him to overload over and over again, murmuring in his audio all the while. In his fantasies there was a mirror hanging opposite the Commandant’s berth, and all Skids could do was watch in the mirror as the Commandant conquered him, body and soul…

Skids shook the thought away.

_I don’t believe in the soul._

Then another notion occurred to him.

If there was no soul…no Primus…no one to see or know what he did here in Grindcore…then why _shouldn’t_ he fuck the Commandant?

There was no God to judge him. There was only the Autobots, and Prime. The Autobots here in Grindcore had _already_ condemned him as a collaborator and traitor. Even though he hadn’t known what the teleporter really did until after he’d fixed it. Even though he’d have been just as damned if he’d chosen to let those fifty prisoners die rather than do as the Commandant asked. 

No, the only judge Skids answered to now was _himself_ , and he’d already come to terms with the fact that he’d have to do some distasteful things to survive in this new life.

Hell, he’d _already_ considered seducing the Commadant, back when he’d first started fixing the teleporter. At the time he’d decided not to even try.

_…Why not?_

It was so hard to remember. Maybe the engex was fogging his thoughts. Finally he put the pieces together. Back then—funny how it seemed so long ago, even though it was only a few weeks—back then he’d pondered the idea, then discarded it. 

There were a lot of prisoners in Grindcore who were more conventionally attractive than Skids. More than one had probably been desperate enough to offer his skills in the berth in exchange for preferential treatment. Skids had nothing unique to offer in that department.

Skids’s particular advantage was in his status as an Outlier—there were _no_ other prisoners with his talents. The Commandant could have his pick of mechs to take to berth, but he could not find a superlearner so readily. Skids would not waste his time bartering his valve when his mind was the commodity in short supply.

Skids sighed. Now the Commandant had the full benefit of Skids’s skills in exchange for just keeping Skids alive and away from the other prisoners. Skids could not be under any illusion that the Commandant would want to trade interface for additional favours. 

_If he wanted my body he could have had it by now_.

Skids’s valve pulsed and Skids bowed his head in defeat. The truth was, he no longer cared about playing the game for advantages and favours.

The truth was, interfacing the Commandant was now its own reward.

Was Skids that ugly that he could be revved-up, panels open, valve leaking, legs spread on the Commandant’s berth and the Decepticon still didn’t want to screw him? Were the pickings in Grindcore so generous that the Commandant’s every fantasy was already satisfied by the other prisoners, or the guards, or whoever else might be lucky enough to warm the Commandant’s berth?

Skids bit down on his lip. He was a superlearner; he still had a few tricks. And he actually _might_ have a few unique skills in the berth that the Commandant hadn’t seen before.

But if he wanted a chance to show him, Skids was going to have to take more initiative. Was it possible the Commandant didn’t _know_ that Skids wanted him? Was it possible the Commandant thought _himself_ out of line for helping Skids overload until the nanobots left his sytems?

_Do I have to lay it out for him?_

Skids’s gaze crept sideways. The Commandant seemed quite content to listen to his music and sip his drink through a straw. He didn’t appear to be in a hurry for Skids to finish up his beverage so he could go back to his cell.

Skids told himself he had nothing to lose. He’d already been intimate with the Commandant to an extent that was not that much removed from jack-in-port interface. He was condemned to spend probably the rest of his life in Grindcore—it wasn’t likely any of the Autobot prisoners would willingly frag a traitor like him, and Skids didn’t want to end up screwing the guards. 

_Why not? What’s the difference?_

_The difference is that I_ want _the Commandant._

_He’s a monster, and I know it, and still…I want him to frag me. Still._

Skids threw back the rest of the engex in his glass, and though part of him expected the Commandant to disapprove— _fine vintages should be savoured, Skids, you know better than this_ —another part of him knew he needed liquid courage to cross a line he still felt he shouldn’t cross.

_This mechanism murdered Quark._

_This mechanism is why I’m imprisoned here._

_And I don’t care._

Skids set down his glass on the table in front of the couch. The sound of the container striking the surface seemed ominous somehow, like a gavel slamming down in judgment.

Then Skids shifted his weight and leaned his shoulder against the Commandant’s.


	29. Seduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the one-year anniversary of the day I posted the first chapter. In that year, I want to thank everyone who's supported this story, with comments, reblogs, tags, messages...I appreciate all your feedback, very much.
> 
> We are on the edge of endgame, but there is a lot of fallout yet to come...

Seduction

Skids held his breath, waiting to see what would happen. The Commandant’s treads felt warm and surprisingly soft against Skids’s shoulder. Skids gasped as the big Decepticon moved beneath him.

And folded his arm around Skids’s back.

Skids dimmed his optics. He felt dizzy with delight, held safely in the Commandant’s grasp. The room seemed to slowly spin, which was ridiculous. These drinks weren’t that strong.

Were they?

“Another?” the Commandant murmured.

Skids lit his optics. The Commandant held out a glass in his free hand. The other hand rested gently but firmly on Skids’s side.

Skids nodded and accepted the drink.

The Commandant sighed, venting softly. He seemed relaxed. Comfortable. 

Skids sipped at his drink and waited for the Commandant’s hands to wander over his frame. 

Nothing. Nothing. 

Skids sipped again and realized that he was drinking out of the Commandant’s goblet. His own glass remained in front of him on the couch. The Commandant’s beverage tasted different somehow.

Had the drink been laced with something? Had the Commandant laced his own drink? Or had he slipped something in it before giving it to Skids?

_Do I care?_

Skids realized that he didn’t. He drank again, deeply, and wondered whether he should make a move if the Commandant didn’t. For Primus’s sake, they were already _touching_. How more obvious could he be in suggesting that if the Commandant wanted a little fun, he wouldn’t refuse?

He didn’t dare proposition the Commandant. Nothing was less enticing than a blatant and unwanted offer. He was afraid of ruining this moment, which was already very nice and more than he could have expected given the past week. But his valve throbbed and his spike ached and the drink gave him courage. 

Skids drank down the last of the engex, put the goblet next to his glass on the table, and dropped his hand to the Commandant’s thigh.

“My,” the big Decepticon said. “Aren’t _you_ affectionate tonight.”

Of course, the instant the Commandant noticed, Skids felt his fuel tanks clench in fear and his mind race with second thoughts. _Are you really doing this?!_ But, of course, now it was too late to take it back. Skids told himself that he was aboard for the ride now, and all he could do was make the best of it.

The Commandant held up his engex decanter to the light in his free hand. “We really _did_ put a dent in this, didn’t we, Skids?”

“Are you angry, sir?” Skids asked hesitantly. Surely the Commandant wouldn’t keep topping up his glass only to punish him for being greedy—would he? Skids’s breath caught in his intakes as he reminded himself that the Commandant could be as capricious as he pleased. Skids wasn’t a guest—he was a prisoner.

“Not at all,” the Commandant replied mildly. “I’m the one who offered it to you, after all. But the engex might explain why you’re being so _tactile_.” 

Skids felt his systems flash with alarm. The Commandant had seen right through his ruse!

Well, _so what_? Skids told himself. There was really no point in being coy.

“Feels good,” Skids murmured as he cuddled up against the Decepticon’s solid frame.

The Commandant moved his arm up to Skids’s shoulders. “I think we’d better be getting you to berth,” he murmured.

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Skids agreed. When the Commandant pulled him to his feet, Skids went with him without hesitation.

But much to his surprise, the Commandant steered Skids away from the sliding door at the rear of the office—the door that Skids now knew led to the Commandant’s private quarters. Instead, the Decepticon guided Skids through the main door, out into the hall.

“Where are we going, sir?” Skids inquired before he could think better of it. He was a prisoner. He didn’t have the right to ask questions of the Commandant. The engex had him speaking without thinking.

The Commandant didn’t seem offended. “Why, to your quarters, of course.”

 _To my cell_ , Skids translated.

Skids wasn’t sure why the Commandant wanted to frag in Skids’s cell—on his narrow, uncomfortable, tiny little cot—but now that he’d been reminded of his place, he kept his questions to himself.

The Commandant opened the door and guided Skids to the berth. Skids sat obediently, though he leaned back to show off his frame to maximum effect. He pretended that his left leg had been artlessly flung out and was in no way deliberately posed to guide a viewer’s gaze towards his valve area. He hoped the Commandant was only pretending not to be checking him out when he stopped in the doorway and turned around.

“Goodnight, Skids,” the Commandant murmured. “Rest well.”

Then he stepped back. The door started to close. Almost too late, Skids realized what was happening. 

_The Commandant was locking him in._

_Alone._

“Sir!” Skids cried out urgently as he bolted to his feet. “ _Sir_!”

The Commandant hesitated, unlocked the portal, and opened the door just a crack. “Yes?”

Skids resisted the urge to beat on the door. _Any_ behaviour that could even in the _slightest_ resemble an attack or escape attempt would get him abandoned here or, worse, restrained by other guards. Skids didn’t want anything coming between him and the Commandant. 

The Decepticon was still watching him expectantly, and Skids found himself at a loss for anything to say. He stammered, “You’re…you’re just leaving me here? Sir?” 

The Commandant tilted his head. His expression, as always, was so hard to determine behind that mask.

 _Oh no._ The Commadant was going to make him _say_ it _._

Well, if he had any shame left after his display in the Commandant’s chambers, the engex burned it away. “Sir…don’t you want to…”

“Don’t I want to what, Skids?”

Skids hung his head and spoke the words like a confession. “Don’t you want to interface with me?”

“Skids.” The Commandant’s voice was perversely gentle. “You’re overenergized.”

Skids wanted to cry. He’d had all those drinks for the sole purpose of building up the courage to ask for what he wanted, and now they were the reason he was being denied?

“I don’t care,” Skids said, lifting his gaze to meet the Commandant’s. “I’d think the same thing sober. I just…I just wouldn’t have the nerve to say it.”

The Commandant opened the door again and took a step into the cell.

Skids felt his heart leap—with anticipation or fear, he didn’t know. He didn’t fight as the Commandant wrapped a powerful arm around his shoulders and led him to the berth. He could barely breathe as the Commandant picked him up and deposited him on the mattress. Skids splayed his legs, opened his panels…

…and the Commandant dropped his chamois blanket over his rapidly heating frame. “You need to sleep it off.”

“Sir,” Skids panted. “Sir, I’ll do anything.” Skids had never been so acutely aware of how very little he had to bargain with any longer. “Commandant, _please_.”

“Skids.” The Commandant stroked Skids’s helm with gentle fingers. “We’ll discuss this tomorrow evening.”

 _Tomorrow evening_. That wasn’t a _no_. And still it was an eternity away.

Skids tried to stifle his response, but the engex loosened his lips. He emitted a miserable whimper.

“Enter recharge now.” The Commandant murmured the words into Skids’s audio. His breath was hot against Skids’s helm, simultaneously menacing and exciting.

An order from his master. He had no choice but to obey.

“Yes, sir,” Skids mumbled.

Then the dark presence at his side vanished. Skids listened to the Commandant as he crossed the cell, opened the door, exited, and locked it behind him. Skids curled up into a ball and gritted his teeth against the aching in his valve and the drunken thrumming in his fuel tanks.

He’d gotten overenergized on purpose and propositioned a sadistic Decepticon warlord and now here he was, alone in the dark, buzzing on the engex and desperate for a frag.

And the Commandant hadn’t said _no_.

Tomorrow, dead sober, Skids would have to confess what he wanted. 

In that moment he hated himself for _wanting_ interface with a person like the Commandant of Grindcore.

His optics streamed with light, and whether they were tears from being denied or tears from feeling such perverse desire in the first place, Skids did not know.

But his body craved what it craved, and in the meantime, there was only one way Skids was going to get to sleep.

He popped open his panels, slid his index finger into his valve, and thought of the Commandant.


	30. Command Performance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter from the Commandant's point of view prior to endgame....

Interlude the Third: Command Performance

The Commandant of Grindcore filled a delicate crystal goblet with innermost energon and watched the delicious scene playing out on his security monitor.

Poor Skids was so revved up that he could hardly _bear_ it. The Commandant watched his pet Autobot writhing on his berth and weeping, pumping his hips while his own left hand caressed his chest and his lips mouthed the Commandant’s title and his optics streamed with light. The Commandant sighed and wished he had _sound_ on the monitors. He would dearly love to hear Skids moaning his designation in between sobs.

He _would_ hear it, tomorrow evening.

It had taken all the Commandant’s self-discipline not to take Skids right there in his cell. The only thing that had held him back was the knowledge of the sweet satisfaction that came only with an intricate game played out in full. 

The Commandant half-lidded his optics in appreciation of his decadent indulgences: the fine vintage in his cup, the fine mech on his screen.

He’d not been entirely able to refuse engex when he’d had Skids here in his office. Given the nature of his opening gambit, Skids would have been suspicious if he’d been offered engex from one decanter while the Commandant drank from another. The Commandant needed Skids to believe that he was wholly at fault: that his own weakness and greed and lust had brought him to the state he was in now. So the Commandant had forced himself to sip his drink slowly—very slowly—lest he feel its intoxicating effects, lose his inhibitions, and bungle his command performance right before the climax.

When Skids wasn’t looking, he’d diluted the engex in his goblet with the sparkling energon he’d ordered yesterday. Still it was hard not to drink deeply and quickly. He burned with thirst, but he could not quench it with either the eager mech at his side or the fluid in his cup. Not _yet_.

And even so he had taken a gamble. Had let his pet superlearner drink from his cup. He hoped Skids was too intoxicated by his sixth drink to notice the different flavour. 

Really, there was only so much a mech could be expected to do.

And even with his drink diluted it had stretched his tolerance to the breaking point to keep his hands off his personal engineer when Skids had leaned against him on the couch. _Oh_ , how the Commandant had wanted to savour him then and there. To feel that moist and hungry valve sheathing his spike…

He would never forgive himself if his blended drink tipped Skids off and ruined his plans.

But he never would have been able to resist his engineer’s charms if he hadn’t watered down his drinks.

He was not good at waiting. His frame practically seethed with anticipation. The Commandant rose to his feet, changed shape, and quickly changed back before he missed too much of Skids’s performance on the monitor. Yes, that was better. He changed again—back to tank, then back to mech. The Commandant sagged back into his chair, breathing deeply.

The aphrodisiac candies had proved to Skids that the Commandant could give him untold pleasures, but Skids still believed the Commandant was too restrained, too proper, to interface with his prisoner when toys could do the trick. Tonight, Skids had overcome all his inhibitions to ask for a repeat performance—a proper fragging, this time. Once again he had been turned down by a mechanism too moral to interface with an intoxicated person. A kindness, Skids would think.

For the Commandant it would be the final link in a chain which Skids had so willingly placed around his own neck.

Tomorrow Skids would come to him, and with such beautiful shame the Autobot would admit that he found his master desirable, and if his work pleased the Commandant, perhaps he might be favoured with an evening in the Commandant’s berth…?

The Commandant felt his own need sharpen into a cutting knife, slashing through his belly, goring out his spark.

It was all he could do not to rise from his chair and go down to the cellblock and knock on Skids’s door. All he could do not to make it easy for his prisoner to put them both out of their suffering. 

He could not, _would not_ think about taking Skids right there on his little prison cot, or how good it would feel, for _both_ of them. Instead he would think about what a sin it would be for him to waste his personal engineer on a single night’s binge.

The Commandant of Grindcore had never been that good at moderation, nor was it easy for him to defer pleasure. He reached for his decanter and drank four and a half servings of innermost energon, all in quick succession, like shots. A half, because his decanter ran dry. He tilted it skyward, let the last drop fall between the edges of his mask.

A shame. A dirty, dirty waste. The Commandant sat back in his chair, dazed as the strong energon hit his systems and just kept punching, causing the room to rotate around him and the colours on his viewscreen to smear. Innermost energon was not easy to come by and it would cost him a small fortune to acquire some more.

But he was now pleasantly intoxicated and disinclined to move, not even when Skids slipped a third finger up into his arousal-swollen valve. The Commandant felt more than contented to relax and watch the show.

He realized, belatedly, that so much innermost energon wasn’t doing his own inhibitions any favours. He’d opened his spike cover and wrapped his hand around his spike before he’d realized what he was doing—right here in his office, where anyone could come by.

They were supposed to knock. They’d regret it if they didn’t. The Commandant worked hard running this filthy, degenerate nightmare of a prison and he was more than entitled to some personal indulgences.

Left hand cupping his goblet and its last precious half-glass of innermost energon. Right hand stroking his spike. Attention riveted on Skids, pounding his fingers into his valve as fluid trickled down to his wrist.

The Commandant hoped Skids wasn’t being too rough on himself. He wanted Skids’s valve to be properly sensitive when next they met.

…Really, he should take his own advice, he thought as he saw how roughly he was handling his spike. It wouldn’t be good to overwork the equipment.

But the Commandant was not that good at moderation, and he would just have to deal with the consequences when the time came. It had already taken all his self-control—and all his supply of innermost energon—not to pluck his prize before it was ripe.

And ripe it would be.

Tomorrow.


	31. Repair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from TFCon and....
> 
> ....I've been convinced to make this a series.
> 
> So, if anyone is under any illusions that the anticipated event is in any way, shape or form the END, I'm afraid I'll have to disabuse you of the notion, because the sequel just gets worse and there are plenty of twists by plenty of knives to come.
> 
> "Enjoy"....

Chapter 27: Repair

Skids’s valve tingled, threatening to distract him from the day’s job: fixing the illumination panels in the Commandant’s office. Portable lanterns hanging around the room gave him light to work by. The Commandant wasn’t even here. Snare sat on the couch, pretending to watch him, mostly playing some game on his datapad with only the occasional glance up at Skids. Really, Skids ought to try to steal components or sabotage the power grid or plant a listening device or _something_ , but that ship had sailed a long time ago, and Skids no longer had the motivation to play at spying or resistance or escape.

It really was funny how often things broke around Grindcore. Yesterday the illumination panels had been working fine, but all the fans were dead. Today the fans were still functional, but the lights wouldn’t work.

The notion was frustrating and banal and boring and stupid and Skids had to keep his mind focused on it or else he’d break down and sob. Primus, but he didn’t _dare_ think about what had happened last night. He let himself contemplate the pain in his head and the ache in his fuel tank from overenergizing, but that was all. 

_Maybe the whole thing was an awful engex-induced nightmare._

Skids felt a mix of hope and fear. He was so confused that he did not know what he was hoping for or what he was afraid of. Should he hope that he’d only dreamed that he’d propositioned the Commandant—or should he hope that the promise to see the Commandant tonight was real? Should he be afraid that he’d disgusted the Commandant—or should he be afraid that he’d merely imagined how good he’d felt in the Commandant’s arms?

Skids dragged his thoughts back to the present. _Nothing’s real for you right now but this broken illumination panel._

Skids tried swapping out the current filaments for new ones, but that didn’t work. Only after he’d replaced them all did Snare bother to tell him that swapping out the parts was the _first_ thing they’d tried. Snare shoved an energon cube at him and told him to refuel while he went for a break. Then the Predator stepped outside and left Skids alone in the Commandant’s office.

Wasn’t _that_ a distraction. Skids entertained an idle notion of climbing under the Commandant’s desk and self-servicing again. 

Except that if he started, he might not _stop_ , and if Snare came back and found him playing with his valve… Skids felt sick to think about what might happen. He honestly didn’t know if Snare would try to frag him or not, but just the idea made him feel ill. No, he didn’t want to frag Snare, or anyone else for that matter…

… _only the Commandant._

Skids took a deep breath and drank from the cube. Much to his surprise, the cube was filled with a mild, thick fuel that Skids recognized as a variant of the stuff the Commandant had fed him through the tube…

_Suck, Skids_ , the Commandant had said…

Skids felt his faceplates heating as he imagined the Commandant’s voice, and how happy he would be to suck anything the Commandant asked him to…

The thick fuel felt good on his tanks after last night’s overenergizing. There must have been a mild analgesic in it, too, because the pain in his head faded. The flavour settled on his tongue, and though it made him think of the Commandant, Skids found himself able to concentrate on what seemed to be a fault in the power relay junction on the Commandant’s wall. The components inside were completely fried. Skids set about replacing them, and all the while he remembered the Commandant holding him, soothing him, feeding him that fuel. 

It was a long job, a tricky job, and one that took concentration. Skids barely noticed when Snare returned to his spot on the couch. He preferred to save his processor for thoughts such as drinking that medical grade fuel while the Commandant murmured in his audio, stroked his frame, told him how pleased he was with him. Skids’s fantasies turned to comfort rather than interface, and instead of burning him alive with lustful heat, he found himself warmed from his spark chamber out.

“You hear me, Autobot?”

Skids startled. Snare was no longer on the couch. He was looming over Skids, who hadn’t even heard him approaching.

“Sorry?”

“I _said,_ is it fixed yet?”

“Almost.” Skids reached back into the junction. “Just one more part, and then we can test it.”

“About time,” Snare muttered.

“There,” Skids said, fitting the last part into place. “Flip the switch.”

Snare did, and sure enough, the illumination panels sprang to life. “Huh,” Snare said.

“Power relay junction was totally fried. If I didn’t know better, I’d say something in this office sent a massive surge through the system and sizzled it.”

“Really.” Snare folded his arms. “Funny how stuff is always breaking around here.”

So Snare had noticed it too. 

The Predator tilted his head. “You ever see anything like this before, Skids?”

Skids felt uneasy. Was Snare accusing him of sabotage? Should he point out that there was plenty of broken stuff in Grindcore before he’d ever come here—stuff the Commandant had kept him busy doing repairs ever since his arrival? Or should he bow his head and murmur in the negative and hope that a display of submission would placate the Predator?

_Or should I answer honestly?_

Because _yes,_ he _had_ seen this before…equipment breaking with no rhyme or reason. A memory of the past danced at the back of his mind. Skids didn’t believe in jinxes, but there had been….

A knock on the door startled Skids from pursuing the thought. 

The knocker didn’t wait for Snare to open the portal. The door slid open, and there was the Commandant himself. “Am I able to return to my own office now?” he asked softly, but there was an undercurrent of menace in his voice that sent a flare of heat to Skids’s valve.

Skids ought to be concerned. He really did know better than to think that lethal purr could portend anything _good_. But there was something about that lyrical voice coming from that big, brutal frame that fascinated him. The Commandant was an iron fist in a velvet glove, and Skids found himself helpless in the face of his new obsession.

“Yes, sir,” Snare said.

“I was _asking_ my personal engineer,” the Commandant said, as though scolding. He glanced at Skids, waiting for a reply.

Skids thrilled. “Yes, sir,” he said, drawing his heels together and coming to attention. “I repaired a fault in your power relay junction. It should be back to normal now.” Skids glanced at it and felt embarrassed by the pile of old damaged parts on the floor, and the ugly visible cables. “I, ah, I just need to put the cover back on and sweep up the trash.” 

“Excellent. Proceed, Skids.” 

Skids wanted to wait—to let the Commandant admire him, and to enjoy being the object of his attention—but he knew better than to dally when given an order. Skids turned his back and set to work replacing the cover.

“Snare, you are dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir.” 

Skids heard the door open and close. He was… His hands trembled as they fastened the cover panel back onto the wall. _He was alone with the Commandant._

“Let me know when you’ve finished,” the Commandant purred.

“Yes, sir,” Skids said eagerly, but no sooner had he said it than a bolt of worry passed through his system.

He’d lost track of time. His internal chronometer told him it was evening. Evening…when the Commandant had promised to discuss Skids’s behaviour last night. Skids could no longer pretend he’d merely dreamed his drunken proposition. He’d felt excited to be alone with the Commandant, when he ought to be praying for escape.

But…

Whether he felt happy or frightened had no bearing on what was going to happen next. He couldn’t escape, even if he wanted to. He couldn’t seduce the Commandant, even when he’d tried to. He couldn’t resist the effects of the candies he’d stolen. He wasn’t smart enough or brave enough or tough enough to save himself. What if _none_ of his actions could change his fate? What if he had no control over his own life at all…

The thought frightened him more than even the realization when he’d been standing in the smelting chamber and finally figured out what it was for.

His hands trembled as he swept the last bit of scrap into a funnel and dumped it into the trash.

“Skids,” the Commandant murmured behind him. “Come here.”

_You still have control. You have to. You can think. You can act! You’re still your own person!_

And yet, when the Commandant called, Skids turned and went.


	32. Conversation

Skids had spent the day trying hard not to notice the couch, where he’d leaned against the Commandant the night before. He’d almost succeeded, but now, the sight of the Commandant sitting on the couch and beckoning to him brought all those memories rushing back. 

Skids felt ashamed of himself. _Dirty_ , even. What had he been doing, trying to seduce his jailer? What made him think that the Commandant would ever want to frag _him_? The Commandant hadn’t wanted to frag him when he’d been stretched out on his berth, begging as the aphrodisiac ravaged his systems. Why would he want him now? 

Skids wondered if there was any punishment the Commandant could give him that could possibly hurt worse than he hurt right now, realizing how _pathetic_ he was. If the Commandant threw him into the smelter, it would hurt for a few minutes and then it would be over—forever. This realization that he was nowhere near as clever or as strong or as special as he’d thought he was…this would hurt him for the rest of his life. 

The Commandant, sitting on the right side of the couch, patted the cushion beside him. “Sit here.” 

Skids went, caught between his endless thirst to be near the Commandant and his fear that should he touch him, he would sully the Commandant by his very presence. Dutifully, Skids sat. His throat tightened and his vents clamped shut with nervous anticipation. 

“Now, Skids,” the Commandant began, “do you remember what you did last night?” 

Skids hung his head. There was no point in denying it. “I…” His voice broke. He tried again. “I propositioned you.” 

“I’d given you too much to drink, hadn’t I?” 

Skids lifted his head, staring incredulously at the Commandant. That comment…it sounded as though the Commandant thought it was _his fault_. 

“Sir, I’m the one who kept emptying my glass.” Even as he said it, Skids realized it was dangerous to confess culpability to his warden, but it was too late now. “I could have drank it slower. Or not at all.” 

_He_ was the one who’d crossed the line. He’d consumed the engex…he’d eaten the candies…he’d begged the Commandant to frag him. _He_ was the one who couldn’t seem to act appropriately. 

“Could you?” The Commandant inclined his head. “You _are_ my prisoner. It implies a certain level of…coercion, does it not?” 

Skids blinked, bewildered. 

“If I hand you a glass of engex, you can only presume I mean you to drink it. There’s an implicit threat if you disobey, isn’t there?” 

Skids sat there, stunned, because he couldn’t disagree with that statement. Why was the Commandant admitting it so openly? 

“But I…” Skids stammered. “I _wanted_ to.” He hung his head, summoned his courage, and still had to dim his optics before he blurted, “I _want_ to.” 

“Oh, Skids.” 

Skids dared to illuminate his optics and look at the Commandant. 

The mask concealed the Decepticon’s expression, but his optics were glowing intently as he looked back at Skids. “Skids, I know this is difficult, and that you have every reason to distrust me, but I need to ask you to trust me when I say I would very much like to discuss this matter off the record. Just two mechs having a conversation. None of this…this business where you guess the answers I wish to hear. No fear of reprisals should you guess wrong. No more tiresome war games. Can you do this for me, Skids? Can we set aside our roles of warden and prisoner and just _talk_?” 

Numbed, Skids nodded. 

The Commandant laced his fingers together. “Do you remember what you said to me that night I took care of you? Right at the end, before you dropped into recharge?” 

Skids thought hard. The whole encounter felt like a dream, hazy and indistinct, but Skids had fantasized about it often enough, playing it over and over again in his mind. “Yes,” he said, and then his throat clenched, because what edits had he made as he re-lived it, with his fingers in his valve in the privacy of his cell? What details had he added or omitted in the name of making the fantasy even sweeter? He felt as though he couldn’t trust his own recollections. “If, ah, if I’m remembering right…and you’ll recall I was a bit disoriented…” Skids suddenly felt shy. “I said it felt as though you and I had an oasis. A place away from…from everything Grindcore is.” 

“A heaven in the midst of hell,” the Commandant suggested, and Skids nodded. The Commandant drew a deep breath as he unlaced his fingers. “That’s a very seductive idea, Skids.” 

Skids blinked. What was the Commandant implying? 

“It’s not easy holding this position, Skids. You’re smart…you know that. Running this prison means I have to _live_ in it, surrounded on all hands by the worst that our species has to offer…because Grindcore isn’t just for prisoners of war. No, sad to say, even the Decepticon ranks aren’t without our deviants…the mechs who kill for the fun of it, the traitors, the perverts, the sociopaths.” 

“That’s why Glit’s here,” Skids said with a flash of insight. 

“Yes, exactly. Glit, I’m hoping a stay with us will scare him back onto the straight and narrow. Some of these others, though…some we can rehabilitate, some we can’t. And until we find out which is which, we have to guard them, and guarding them makes our security staff harder, crueler…honestly, they have to be, for their own sakes. They’re exposed to the very worst of Cybertronian nature, day in and day out. If you’re not a monster when you get posted here, Grindcore will finish the job soon enough.” 

Skids nodded sympathetically. 

“So you can see how I struggle every day with this environment I’ve found myself in. I understand how important the work here is to the Cause, and yet…Is it traitorous to admit I get tired? Exhausted? Starved for the finer things in life—the things that make life worth living?” 

“I don’t think so,” Skids said quickly. “You can’t solve challenges by pretending they don’t exist.” 

The Commandant patted Skids’s knee. The touch felt good, but oh, it wasn’t the kind of touch Skids was still hoping for. “That’s very kind of you to say. Yes. So. A challenge for me.” The Commandant drew a deep breath into his intakes. “And then along you come with a very tempting solution.” 

“So?” Skids asked hopefully. “Are you tempted?” 

“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” the Commandant inquired. 


	33. Show Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on this chapter:
> 
> Point of view switch from Skids to the Commandant and back again. 
> 
> If you've read this far without realizing that the Commandant is not nice/not a role model for real life, I don't know what to tell you. But if getting inside that kind of person's point of view is upsetting, take warning.
> 
> #
> 
> And notes on the story as a whole:
> 
> Though I don't deny any allegations of being a sadistic monster of a writer, I will reassure (?) everyone that by the end of this story, it will be revealed why the Commandant is doing what he's doing (beyond preferring his Voice over physical violence, as seen in canon, unless he's in dire straits or losing self-control).
> 
> And lest anyone think I've run out of knives to twist, next story in the series, These Masks We Wear, puts a horrific choice in front of Skids, while Tarn loses some of his own freedom...

“Problem?” Skids repeated, befuddled. 

If they both wanted to…to do this…why was there a problem? 

The Commandant just stared at him, until finally Skids licked his lips and broke the silence. “How come?” 

The Commandant dithered, wringing his hands. “Well…that whole business at the start of this conversation. Setting aside our roles as warden and prisoner. We’re _enemies_ , Skids. I shouldn’t find you attractive, and you shouldn’t find me attractive.” 

“But I do,” Skids protested, and only then did his brain process the entirety of what the Commandant had said. 

“You think I’m attractive?” Skids whispered. 

The Commandant nodded, and he looked upset about it. Skids’ spark wrenched. 

“No, there’s nothing bad about this,” Skids said fervently. He dared to reach out his hand and place it over one of the Commandant’s, halting the wringing motion. “The day this war has us believing that good things are wrong…that’s the day we’re all damned.” He drew a deep breath. “We were all one species, before the war began. And we will be again, once it’s over. We can’t…it’s easy to fight monsters. It’s a lot harder to fight _other people_. Our own kind.” 

“I’ve done some awful things here,” the Commandant whispered. 

Yes. He _had_. And if Skids had any morals at all he’d be calling the Commandant to account, for Quark and for everyone else in the so-called teleporter who could no longer speak for themselves. 

…What kind of monster was _Skids,_ to feel this way about a torturer? 

“Megatron made you do it, didn’t he?” Skids asked desperately. 

Because maybe it wasn’t the Commandant’s fault. The Commandant said he was miserable here…maybe he was a victim too. Maybe he had to do his job, on pain of death. Maybe he hadn’t _wanted_ to do what he’d done. 

If it wasn’t his fault, then he was as much a victim as Skids, and it wouldn’t be wrong for Skids to feel this way about him. 

It wouldn’t be wrong to hope that maybe they could save each other. 

The Commandant nodded, wordlessly. “I should have…” Skids saw the flicker of a tongue licking lips under the mask. “I…I probably shouldn’t have pulled you out…you’re dangerous, Skids, you know too much.” His voice was barely audible as he added, “Megatron wouldn’t approve.” 

“Then why did you?” Skids whispered. The question had kept him awake at night for a very long time… _why?_ Why had he lived when Quark and everyone else had died? 

The Commandant turned his head away. “I couldn’t,” he said softly. “Not you.” 

Skids took a deep breath as he gently squeezed the Commandant’s hand. “It’s not wrong to care for someone.” 

Surely it couldn’t be wrong to give a damn. To build, by one’s own will, as the Commandant said: a heaven in the midst of hell. 

And Skids realized that _caring about someone_ was far more than just wanting to fuck them. 

Did he _care_ about the Commandant? 

How could that be possible? 

Because the Commandant had defied Megatron to save _Skids._

Because Skids had stolen from the Commandant and the Commandant had helped him anyway. 

Because the Commandant didn’t want to take advantage of him. 

Because he needed _something_ in this Primus-forsaken prison that could be loving and good. 

Skids swallowed. “And if two _people_ want to be happy together…why shouldn’t they? Why shouldn’t they take happiness where they can find it? In a place like this…isn’t it important to remember what we’re all living for?” 

The Commandant nodded, and squeezed Skids’s hand. 

“Someday this war will be over,” Skids said fervently. “No matter who wins, we’ll all go back to being just _people_ again. And if _either_ of us is going to live that long, we’ll have to hold on to that hope. And maybe the easiest way to hold onto that hope is to…to accept that it’s already true.” He swallowed. “Under ranks and classifications and badges…we’re all just _people_ , aren’t we?” 

Skids drew in a ragged breath. “If we weren’t the Commandant of Grindcore and his prisoner…if we were just two…two random mechs, out under the skies of…of Crystal City…” Skids named the best-known neutral city he knew. Somewhere where their factions wouldn’t come into play. “If that’s all we were, what would we do tonight?” 

For a moment, Skids thought the Commandant was going to tell him the answer he wanted to hear. 

But silence stretched on—too long—and the Commandant pulled his hands away from Skids’s and started wringing them again. 

“I _can’t_ ,” he said. 

# 

The Commandant listened to his own fuel pump pounding loudly in his ears and wondered if he’d made one gamble too many. 

He’d laid one more bet—just one more—in the hopes of winning everything he desired. Maybe he should have been content with what he’d already won. He _could_ have led Skids to his berth and Skids would have gone, gone willingly. That should have been enough. Gamblers who played for too long lost it all—he knew that. 

For a stroke of his engine, he cursed his own greed. 

And then Skids pressed his lips together, put his hand on the Commandant’s shoulder, and spoke. 

“Who’s going to stop you?” Skids cajoled. “You’re the Warlord of Grindcore, aren’t you? You’re the _law_ here.” 

The Commandant fought to keep any note of triumph from his voice as he dug his hook in deep. “Have you no fear, then, that I am your Lord and you are my prisoner?” 

“I understand that outside these walls, we each have our role to play. I agree to play mine. But inside these walls…you said it yourself. Just two mechs having a conversation.” He leaned in closer. “Just two mechs finding their heaven where they can.” 

Skids really was beautiful. The Commandant raised his hand to cup Skids’s cheek. 

“And one more thing.” Skids trembled with the effort required to keep himself upright. “I don’t consider myself your prisoner.” He dimmed his optics. “I’d rather consider myself _your very personal engineer_.” 

The Commandant felt his engine roar in triumph. Triumph, and barely disguised lust. 

“Well then,” he said, and he laced his voice with honey and poison, “what would you have of me…my very personal engineer?” 

“My Lord,” Skids murmured, his optics shining. “I’d be honoured with whatever pleasure you wish to give me.” 

# 

Skids had thought the Commandant would pick him up and lay him out in his berth, thighs parted, arms stretched out above his head, valve panel open, spread out for his Lord to admire. Indeed, the fantasy excited him…Skids was no longer afraid to admit it. So he was surprised when the Commandant released his hands at the side of the bed and climbed into the berth himself. 

Skids stood there helplessly, watching his Lord settle onto the middle of the berth. “My Commandant?” he asked, confused. 

The Decepticon patted his hip in clear invitation. Skids felt a bolt of excitement through his spark as he realized what the Commandant had in mind. Skids put his knee onto the bed and straddled the Commandant’s pelvis. 

Their panels touched and Skids gasped. The Commandant’s panel radiated heat, and Skids…Skids could feel his own panel flood with a rush of moisture from his valve as he settled himself atop the Commandant. 

Oh, Primus, his valve. It clearly remembered what had happened to it the last time Skids was in this room, and it couldn’t wait for a reprise. 

The Commandant dimmed his optics. A sigh of pleasure escaped from the slit in his mask. 

Skids realized that he was rubbing his panel against the Commandant’s, his hips pumping instinctively, and it felt good, but oh, he wanted so very much more. 

“Can I…” Skids began, and then his voice faded, because he’d spoken without thinking. No matter how deeply his hunger burned, he had to remember that their conversation as equals was fragile. Push it too far, and the Commandant would be forced to reassert his role as ultimate authority in Grindcore. Megatron would demand nothing less. And Megatron, Skids was coming to realize, held the Commadant’s leash—forced him to do these awful things in this awful place. 

“You can do as you please,” the Commandant murmured. 

Skids quivered. “But you’re…you’re my Lord.” 

“And I mustn’t pressure you,” the Decepticon replied as he stroked Skids’s inner thighs with a light touch that made Skids want to beg for so much more. “Tonight you need to show me what you’re choosing to offer me.” His hand moved from side to side, and Skids spread his legs a little wider to give that hand maximum access, but the Commandant did not open Skids’s panel. 

“S-sir…” 

“Show me what you want to do with me.” 

Skids didn’t hesitate to reach down and snap his valve panel open. 


	34. Tease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title aside, this story IS going somewhere, so those of you who wonder if you've signed up for 40 chapters of endless torment by a sadistic writer can take comfort in the fact that there is, in fact, an end outlined. Before the sequel.

Skids knelt astride the Commandant’s hips, his valve on full display. He felt suddenly shy. He wasn’t sure why. 

It wasn’t as though the Commandant had never seen his valve before. And it wasn’t as though Skids hadn’t shown it to lovers before. Perhaps Skids _had_ shown his spike more frequently, but overall, Skids was usually up for anything and everything his lovers had in mind.

Still, showing his valve to the Commandant made his faceplates heat. He almost… _almost_ …shut his panel again, but there was no way he could offer himself to the Commandant and then retract the offering. He would have to sit and squirm and wait for his Master’s evaluation.

Fortuantely, it wasn’t long in coming.

“Skids,” the Commandant breathed. “Skids, you’re beautiful.”

Skids felt the Commandant’s praise wrap around his spark like a warm blanket. Every word the Commandant spoke felt heavy with meaning, gilded with importance. The Commandant’s words were not idle chatter. He felt them resonating in his spark and knew that the Commandant’s evaluation was the only one that mattered.

The Commandant reached out his hand towards Skids’s valve, and Skids held his breath.

The Commandant’s fingers came to a stop bare millimeters from Skids’s anterior node. Skids gasped, trembling. He couldn’t order…couldn’t even ask. Could he beg? He wanted that touch so much.

But the Commandant’s hand hesitated, and to Skids’s optic it seemed as though it shook ever so slightly. Skids wrenched his gaze to meet the Commandant’s. As always, the mask hid the Commandant’s expression. Impulsively, Skids wondered if the Commandant were summoning the courage to ask permission to touch, but a moment later he dismissed the thought as laughable. Why would the Commandant need to ask? Skids was clearly his for the taking. 

Still, the Commandant _wasn’t_ taking, and Skids wasn’t sure how long he could bear this torment. His anterior node felt hypersensitive: it practically radiated heat, and Skids could feel even the slightest movement of air against it, teasing and taunting him. A drop of moisture rolled down the lips of his valve. 

Skids wanted to touch himself, if only to ease his hunger, but the Commandant didn’t like that and…

_Show me what you want to do with me_ , the Commandant had said.

Skids reached out for the Commandant’s hand. He wrapped his left hand’s fingers around the Commandant’s wrist and then glanced at the Commandant’s face— _is this okay?_

The Commandant nodded, ever so slightly.

Quivering, Skids drew the Commandant’s hand nearer to his body, closing the distance.

The Commandant’s index finger brushed Skids’s anterior node. It was all Skids could do not to overload on the spot.

His right hand shook as he laid his index finger on the Commandant’s and gently guided it in a circular motion. He was trembling so hard he made the Commandant’s finger tremble too…but oh. _Oh_. That motion against his node…he’d wanted the Commandant to touch him like this for so long. His optics dimmed as a wave of pleasure washed static over his senses.

“Ah,” the Commandant breathed. “Does that feel good?”

Skids nodded enthusiastically, not trusting himself to speak.

“You’re shaking,” the Commandant observed.

Skids whimpered. He didn’t want to justify himself. He wanted more of this touch. But the Commandant deserved a reply.

“Wanted,” Skids panted. “Wanted this so much.”

“Oh, _Skids,”_ the Commandant said, and Skids wondered if it was a rebuke, except that the Commandant’s optics squinted and sparkled. “You’re so generous. So beautiful.”

Skids felt the Decepticon’s finger moving under his and realized that the Commandant was taking some initiative. His finger traced shifting circles as though seeking something out, and when he found it—when the pressure played over the most sensitive part of Skids’s node—Skids opened his lips and mewled his pleasure. No, Skids wasn’t ashamed to let the Commandant know where he liked it best.

“ _There_ ,” the Commandant said, satisfaction evident in his voice. “That’s what you like. You like it _so much_.”

Skids knew it was useless to deny the statement. Later, he vowed he’d find something the Commandant liked just as much. Right now, though, he was helpless to do much of anything except lean into the Commandant’s touch. He let go of the Commandant’s arm and leaned back and dimmed his optics, surrendering himself. He ground his valve against the Commandant’s panels and rode the building pleasure from the Commandant’s circling finger on his anterior node.

He was on the verge of overload when the Commandant’s finger moved away.

Skids gasped as the pleasure vanished, sending him plummeting. He leaned forward, seeking stability. His hands closed around the barrels of the guns mounted on the Commandant’s shoulders. He panted wildly for air. Agonized, he stared into the Commandant’s face, seeking a reason for his abandonment.

The Commandant slid his finger between the lips of Skids’s valve.

All that grinding had gotten Skids’s valve very wet indeed. The Commandant’s finger slide smoothly down the length of his valve, between the lips, perpendicular to the entrance.

“How about back here?” the Commandant inquired innocently. 

A broken noise emerged from Skids’s mouth, an animal cry of desire and suffering all mixed in together. Yes, that felt good, but Skids’s node ached painfully with thwarted hunger and the Commandant was cruel to treat him this…

The Commandant rubbed the inside of Skids’s valve lip experimentally. _Curiously_ , even.

Could it be the question was sincere?

“Sir,” Skids said. His voice cracked, but only a little. “Sir, that’s good, but my node…it hurts…” He reached for his Master’s hand. “Please, could you…go back and….please.” Words were difficult. His frame just wanted to cry out in raw need. “Please, it hurts when you stop before overload…” He whimpered. “Are you punishing me?”

“Oh, Skids, no.” The Commandant pressed his right index finger back against Skids’s node. “You’d like some more here?” 

Skids howled. The Commandant’s finger was wet with Skids’s valve lubricant and Skids’s body needed more. “Yes!” he cried, heedless of how wanton he might look. 

The Commandant guided his fingertip into a circle, smearing lubricant on Skids’s anterior node.

“Oh, yes sir,” Skids whimpered. He felt so very hungry. “Please don’t stop.”

“Oh, you love that,” the Commandant observed.

“Yes, sir.”

“Even more than having your valve filled?”

“I want that too!” Skids hastened to say. “But right now…right now I need to overload,” Skids admitted. “Please.” He bit his lip. He was being selfish. The Commandant’s face was inscrutable behind his mask. Skids wouldn’t blame him if he was tired of watching Skids overload over and over for nothing in return.

A bolt of lust shot through Skids’s whole frame when Skids realized there was a way to get what he wanted and still share the pleasure. “Sir. Can I…Can I say something.”

“Please do,” the Commandant purred.

“Would you…” Skids drew in a deep breath for courage. He was about to do something wildly inappropriate, but it would be _incredible_ if the Commandant agreed. “Would you open your spike panel?”

“Oh. But don’t you want to overload this way first?”

The Commandant was going to make him say it.

“Sir, if…if you touch me this way…and your spike goes where your finger used to be…” Skids swallowed, his mouth dry. “It’d feel really good for us both. Sir.”

“How _exciting_ ,” the Commandant said, his optics glittering.

“It’d…” Skids bit his lip. There was no point in having any shame any more. “It’d get me so wet, and then…”

The Commandant chuckled. “I imagine it would get my spike rather wet too.”

“And we’d both be ready whenever you wanted to slip inside me.” 

The Commandant drew in a rasp of breath. “Oh, _Skids_.”

Skids wasn’t sure what that comment meant. “Do you…do you want to do this with me, Commandant?”

“You’d like my spike inside you, Skids?”

Skids nodded, panting at the thought. The Commandant’s right index finger continued its wet, lazy circles, stoking Skids’s lust.

“I’ll be good to you, sir,” Skids promised.

“If you’re sure you want this,” the Commandant said as he lowered his left hand to his spike panel.

“I’m sure,” Skids said.

Skids heard the panel click open, but he wasn’t sitting at an angle that let him get much of a look at the Commadant’s spike. The Commandant’s arm blocked part of his view. Skids _felt_ more than _saw_ his Master’s spike emerge, sliding smoothly through the lips of his valve.

Skids moaned.

“Oh, _Skids_ ,” the Commandant breathed. “Oh, Skids, that’s lovely….”

Skids leaned forward, feeling the Commandant’s hard spike sliding through his valve lips, savouring the decadent sensation of having his node played with, and gasping as his overload began to build.

“Do you like it, sir?” Skids panted, not knowing what he’d do if the Commandant didn’t.

“Yes,” the Decepticon admitted, “but you’re quite the tease, aren’t you?”

Something in the back of Skids’s mind questioned that statement. He didn’t think that he was a tease. He hadn’t been leading the Commandant on…had he? 

But surely the Commandant couldn’t be mistaken.

And Skids _had_ been fantasizing about the Commandant and making excuses to touch him and flirting as much as he dared for, well, it felt like a long time now. Maybe he _had_ been a tease. 

Skids licked his lips.

“I’m not teasing anything I don’t intend to deliver,” he murmured. “Sir.”


	35. Requests

“So warm, so wet,” the Commandant murmured. “So exciting.” 

Skids whimpered. He could feel the Commandant’s spike, hot and hard, sliding between the lips of his valve, smearing lubricant everywhere. His calipers fluttered madly on emptiness. The angle wasn’t right for penetration. It was perfect, however, for the Commandant’s spike head to nudge the back of his anterior node, and when Skids felt his node sandwiched between the Commandant’s finger and his spike, rainbow static danced across his vision. His fans roared, helpless to dissipate the heat in his frame. This was far too good, and it was only going to get better.

_You need to stop._

Skids’s conscience was a joykill. Skids firmly told the voice in his head to shut up. He knew he wasn’t going to stop. He felt far too good, and in a few moments he would feel even better.

He was going to fuck the Commandant, and nothing was going to stop him.

 _Heaven in the midst of hell_. Wasn’t it the ultimate act of defiance, to find pleasure in a pit of misery like Grindcore? And why shouldn’t he _be_ defiant? He’d never wanted this war. The war—the warmongerers on both sides— _they_ were the real enemies.

“It’s good,” Skids panted, making sure the Commandant knew how much Skids appreciated his touch. “Sir, it’s so good.” He pumped his hips, grinding his node against the Commandant’s spike.

He felt something unexpectedly hard, pressing against the back of his node. Oh, that pressure felt wonderful—but what could be causing it? He’d never ridden a spike that felt like this before.

He’d take a look later. After he overloaded. Skids lifted his hands and wrapped them around the Commandant’s gun barrels again, holding on tight as he chased his overload, panting from his exertion.

“Look at you.” The Commandant’s voice was rough, but his words still sent shivers of ecstasy through Skids’s very spark. “You just love interface, don’t you?”

That comment could be taken in more than one way. Skids liked ‘facing, yes, but he wasn’t a sex addict—was he? Even if he’d been running hot ever since the incident with the candies, he didn’t think of himself as the kind of mech who’d frag just anyone. He’d said _no_ to mechs before. He hadn’t wanted anyone else in Grindcore to frag him after he’d had those candies either—he remembered worrying about the Predators and Flywheels and even Glit.

In fact, these days he didn’t care if he never fragged anyone but the Commandant ever again—and that wasn’t like him, or rather, wasn’t like the _old him_ , but as of late the _old Skids_ felt like a stranger. The _old Skids_ had believed in the fiction of a loving God and flitted through life with a string of lovers in his wake. The _new Skids_ knew that life was cruel and mercy rare, and the Commandant’s praise was a miracle that happened once in a lifetime.

“I love doing this with you,” Skids panted. He thought about the way Flywheels had looked at him in the hallway, and shivered. “I don’t want anyone else to touch me this way. Please.” He drank in a breath. “Please don’t let anyone else touch me like this.”

The Commandant chuckled. “You’re not the public’s engineer, Skids.” He raised his head close to Skids’s and whispered, in a tone that sent shivers down Skids’s spinal strut, “ _You are all mine_.”

Skids overloaded.

There was something about the Commandant’s voice that pushed him over the edge. The Decepticon’s tone was smoky seduction concealing a rod of iron authority. The Commandant possessed him utterly and, moreso, made Skids lose any desire to escape.

Skids gripped the Commandant’s gun barrels tightly as his back arched and his frame shook. He could feel the Commandant’s hot, hard spike pulsing against the opening of his valve, and if the Commandant took him now, Skids would welcome it. But the Commandant wrapped his arms around Skids and held him tightly. Skids wriggled his hips, rubbing himself against the Commandant’s spike and extending his overload until, exhausted, he sagged against the Commandant’s chest.

He lay there, his fans whirring, and remembered that the Commandant had accused him of being a tease. He’d one again gotten off and given his Master nothing. Primus, but he was selfish. Fear clenched his spark when he wondered how long his Master would be patient.

As soon as he got his breath back, he’d be sure to resume the favour. He needed to let the Commandant know right away. He let go of the Commandant’s guns and moved to rise, but the Commandant’s arms held him tightly to the Decepticon’s chest.

“Skids?” the Commandant inquired.

“Not a tease,” Skids panted, his voice raspy. It would have been nice to lie there until he got his breath back, but he couldn’t risk the Commandant’s poor regard. “Gonna do something nice for you.”

“Oh?” The Commandant seemed amused. That was a lot better than frustrated or angry. Skids relaxed, just a little. The Commandant tilted his head. “And what would this be?”

“I take requests.” Skids felt his faceplates heat.

The Commandant raised his fingers to Skids’s chin, lifting it so he could admire Skids’s face. “Choose some specialties…and tell me what’s on the menu.”

Skids felt his frame heat up again and realized that he was just as turned on at the idea of servicing the Commandant as he was at the thought of overloading under the Commandant’s touch again.

“Well…” He felt the hardness of the Commandant’s spike nudging his inner thigh. “We did talk about your spike inside me.”

“Mmm, that does sound lovely. What else?”

“I could ride you,” Skids suggested, “or you could lay me down and let me spread my thighs for you, or…” Skids swallowed. “Or you could bend me over the furniture and take me from behind.” 

“Why Skids, how naughty.”

“Or, um…” Skids ducked his head. “Do you remember feeding me that medical grade fuel?”

“Yes…” The Commandant seemed puzzled.

Skids felt like an immense pervert. “I, um, I can….”

It was easier to demonstrate than explain. Skids slid his hands around the Commandant’s wrist and lifted his right hand to his lips. Delicately, he kissed the Commandant’s index finger—the one that had been rubbing his node—and slowly took it into his mouth. He tasted his own arousal and swore he felt his valve trickling with fresh moisture.

Skids hollowed his cheeks and sucked gently.

Slowly, he raised his optics to meet the Commandant’s gaze. As always, it was hard to tell under the mask, but the Commandant seemed honestly befuddled. Skids sucked just a little harder and pressed the tip of his tongue to the Commandant’s finger inside his mouth.

Mask or no mask, Skids could tell when realization dawned on the Commandant. The Decepticon coughed lightly and then shook his head.

Skids stopped sucking, suddenly afraid the Commandant was disgusted by his offer.

“My goodness.” The Commandant set his free hand on Skids’s head. “You really are decadent, aren’t you?”

Skids felt shamed. He let the Commandant’s finger slip from his mouth. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Skids.” The Commandant slid his freed hand up under Skids’s chin again. Skids could feel the moisture on the Commandant’s finger under his chin. “That’s not a rebuke.”

Skids trembled. “Then I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do you know what a gift you are to me? So generous with your mind and your body as well. So clever…so enthusiastic…so skilled. And you’re _my personal engineer_.”

“All yours, sir,” Skids agreed.

“And I’m a little in awe of how I came to be so fortunate.”

“Just two people being good to each other,” Skids dared to venture, “building their heaven in the midst of hell.”

The Commandant sighed contentedly and patted Skids’s head. “You’re so kind to me.”

Skids licked his lips. “I want to be good to your right now, sir.”

He couldn’t wait. He rose up on all fours and moved backwards, down the Commandant’s body. It didn’t matter what the Commandant chose off his “menu.” Skids would be ready. In the meantime, he wanted a good look at the Commandant’s spike.

But what he saw made his fuel pump skip a beat.


	36. Two of a Kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skids is making guesses about the Commandant's motivations. A few chapters from now, we'll see how close (or how off the mark) his guesses were.
> 
> #

Chapter 32: Two of a Kind 

Skids stared wordlessly at the Commandant’s spike. He’d seen a lot of spikes before, but nothing quite like this. 

His superlearner’s brain processed numerous thoughts in a matter of seconds. 

There was the explanation for that extra-firm spot of pressure against his anterior node when he’d run his valve lips along the side of the Commandant’s spike. The Commandant had a piercing in his spike, a gold arch running through the head and capped at each end with a round bead. It was one of the beads Skids had felt against his node, and it had felt incredible. 

_That had to have hurt_ , Skids thought, marvelling at the piercing. Clearly it didn’t hurt any more, though, because the Commandant had not flinched in the slightest when Skids had rubbed himself against it. 

Was it purely decorative? Did the Commandant like the look of it—or the feel of it? Did it feel good when the Commandant interfaced, or was its purpose to pleasure a partner, the way it had pleasured Skids? 

His superlearner’s brain offered up a less appealing thought. 

_That piercing won’t let his jack make a connection with your port._

That means that no matter how often or how hard Skids let the Commandant frag him, the Commandant would never be able to upload any data. Skids would never get any insight into the Commandant’s mind through interface. 

Jazz had talked to Skids at length about this topic, back when Jazz had been trying to convince Skids to join Operation Sweet Oil, the Spec Ops initiative to gain information through seducing members of the enemy faction. Seduction, Jazz had said, provided an operative with a number of weapons. When the enemy thought the relationship was sincere, he would often let his guard down and inadvertently reveal important information, or maybe he simply wouldn’t think to log out of his personal datapads in the presence of his lover. If the truth came out, the relationship became an instrument of blackmail: the Decepticon faction didn’t think kindly of trysts with Autobots, and when the Autobot in question was Spec Ops, there was no such fear of reprisals on the Autobot side. If the Decepticon didn’t want the DJD getting wind of his indiscretion, he’d keep his Autobot handler happy. 

And there was yet another advantage. If the Decepticon could be coaxed to use his spike in the Autobot’s valve… Spec Ops operatives never put protective covers on their ports. Whatever the Decepticon uploaded during interface, the Autobot could _download_. And while some Decepticons were tight-lipped even with their lovers, only a very few Cybertronians still remembered how to control or choose the data they uploaded during interface. For most it was uncontrolled, and often deeply personal. Many mechs, even _conjunx endura_ , used valve guards to respect the privacy of their partners’ thoughts—or to spare themselves the trauma of reliving their mates’ darkest memories. 

“You wouldn’t believe what you can learn,” Jazz said with an easy laugh—and a cold glint in his visor told Skids that Jazz had some firsthand examples he wasn’t sharing. 

If Skids had accepted Jazz’s offer to join Sweet Oil, he’d be disappointed to see a Decepticon taking such privacy precautions. Skids almost laughed to realize how little the Commandant’s precautions meant to him now. 

_Good thing I’m not fragging the Commandant for information. Or to help the Autobot cause._

No, Skids was fragging the Commandant solely for his own personal pleasure, and so the Commandant’s unusual piercing was at worst meaningless and at best… 

…well… 

It had felt terribly good against his node. 

Skids was far more interested in the Commandant’s spike, which looked shockingly familiar. Almost identical, in fact, to the Commandant’s personal sex toy…the one he’d asked Skids’s permission before using, on account of the fact that it had evidently been well-used on the Commandant himself. The one that was said to be a replica of Megatron’s spike from his days in the gladiator pits, when gladiator-themed sex toys were very popular amongst fans of the arena battles. 

_That’s got to be a mod._

_The Commandant did himself up to look like Megatron._

And also, apparently, liked to fantasize about being _done by_ Megatron. 

Skids felt suddenly, irrationally jealous. Of _Megatron_ , of all people. He had to remind himself that Megatron wasn’t here. Maybe the Commandant had just wanted to try out how that spike would feel for the recipient before getting the mods done. 

Maybe Skids shouldn’t _care_. The toy had felt amazing. The real thing was bound to be even better. 

“Skids?” the Commandant said. 

Skids tore his optics from the Commandant’s spike. “Have you chosen what you’d like?” 

The Commandant lowered his head. “I think…” His voice was very small. Nervous, even. “I think…would you like a ride?” 

“Nothing else first?” Skids asked with surprise. 

The Commandant seemed almost bashful. “Well, but it’s our first time.” 

Skids wasn’t sure what difference that made to anything. His first time with mechs like Smokescreen and Mirage had been plenty spicy. 

On the other hand, there was really no point offering himself to the Commandant if he didn’t respect the Commandant’s choice off his “menu” of options. 

Suddenly, a shocking idea occurred to him. 

The Commandant was an elegant and refined mech, despite his big, martial alt mode and the environment he worked in. The society of Vos was as decadent as it was cultured, and Iacon not that much better, but the Commandant might not have come from either city. He might be a purer sort of elite—the kind who didn’t speak of interface in polite company, and who would rarely grant himself license to pursue such entertainments in private, certainly never without some kind of formal arrangement in place in advance. Weren’t the Circle of Light said to be celibate? And they were not the only purity cult on Cybertron. Hadn’t Sentinel Prime campaigned loudly that only deviants sought _conjunx endurae_? 

It would explain how the Commandant could find Skids attractive, and yet not take advantage, even when Skids was practically throwing himself at him. 

But in the harsh environment of Grindcore, and after the assurance that Skids was pursuing him of his own free will, the Commandant had finally given in to temptation. 

_We’re two of a kind, in that way._

Then another idea occurred to Skids. 

_Those candies. The ones that got me into this situation._

_The Commandant said they were a gift from Thunderwing._

_And some of them were missing. Did the Commandant know what they were when he sampled them? What happened between those two during those days when Snare let me go hungry? Had the Commandant forgotten to give orders to feed me—or had Thunderwing kept him in a state where he couldn’t?_

Skids felt a sudden flare of defensiveness—as though he could possibly fight a warlord like Thunderwing if it turned out Thunderwing had taken advantage of his Commandant. 

Ah, but there were more ways than one to fight and Skids’s brain was more lethal than any gun. Skids would do anything to protect his generous master. 

“Skids?” the Commandant asked. 

Skids gulped. Even the few seconds it had taken him to process that information had been too long a pause. And there was no way he could tell the Commandant what he was thinking, particularly if his suspicions about Thunderwing were correct. It would ruin the mood entirely. 

“It’s not that I don’t like those other choices,” the Commandant said, and his voice was still oddly shy. “I’d very much like to try them all. It’s just that for now…” 

“Hey.” Skids crept forward on all fours, lowering his face close to the Commandant’s. “I understand.” He surveyed the slit in the Commandant’s mask, judged it too narrow for a satisfactory kiss, and pressed his lips to the base of the Commandant’s throat instead. “I said whatever you wanted, didn’t I?” 

“Skids,” the Commandant whispered. His optics were dim. “Should we be doing this?” 

Skids felt his mouth go dry. He became acutely aware of his wet valve, and the ache deep inside it that his recent overload had done nothing to soothe. If anything, one climax had stoked the fire burning low in his belly. 

Skids leaned back until he felt that hard piercing in the Commandant’s spike nudging the opening of his valve. 

He didn’t want the Commandant to lose his nerve now. Not when Skids had already damned himself by taking things this far. 

Thoughts of Thunderwing reverberated in his mind. 

“Do you want me to stop?” Skids asked gently. 

The Commandant’s optics gleamed, enigmas in ruby. “No.” 

Skids rose up on his knees and slowly sank down onto the Commandant’s spike. 


	37. Engineer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Beyond just being NSFW, this chapter has some disturbing themes (actually, the entire story has some disturbing themes, but they’re front and center in this chapter as Skids begins to question his situation and finds himself faced with a horrific decision). No physical violence; all psychological. Proceed with caution.

Chapter 33: Engineer 

Skids felt the piercing in the tip of the Commandant’s spike scrape against his first set of calipers and gritted his teeth, waiting to feel discomfort. He’d been too eager—the Commandant’s spike was larger than any he’d taken before, and he couldn’t trust his own lubricant would be enough. He should have… 

Should have what? Asked the Commandant to touch him, to stretch him with his fingers? He wasn’t entitled to ask anything of the Commandant. He’d asked far too much already. Touched himself? The Commandant hadn’t liked that the last time he’d seen him doing it in his presence. Used the last of the cream that Glit had given him? Yes, that would have made his valve slick and ready in no time, but the cream was back in his cell. He hadn’t thought to use it before coming to work that morning and now it was too late. 

It would be worth it. Skids braced himself against the pain he knew was coming. 

But the Commandant’s spike slid smoothly through his second ring of calipers—then his third—then his fourth. Skids couldn’t understand it. He’d sworn there would be no way he could take a spike as big as Megatron’s—or the Commandant’s—without a significant amount of foreplay. Had he become so relaxed after just one overload? He should feel as though he were being torn open, but instead he just felt…. _good_. 

No, better than good, he realized as the spike breached his fifth caliper ring and he realized that he was feeling _just enough_ stretch to feel as though he were being stuffed full without taking him over the line between pleasure and pain. Somehow the Commandant’s spike had gone from being alarmingly large to just the perfect size. 

Then a series of images flashed through Skids’s mind. Lying on the Commandant’s berth while that slim wand eased through his inhibitor-tensed calipers. A long, lazy session of play relaxing him until he could take that toy which was a perfect replica of Megatron’s spike…and, coincidentally, the Commandant’s. Begging not to have to recharge empty and the Commandant stuffing that huge pink toy up into his loose and aching valve. Forgetting to tell Glit that he feared the big toy had permanently re-set his calipers… 

_When they tightened up, they didn’t tighten back to your factory setting. They tightened just enough that the Commandant’s spike is the perfect size._

_What a fortunate coincidence,_ Skids thought, and then his brain ran headlong into a realization that knocked the wind right out of his intakes, just as the piercing on the Commandant’s spike nudged the port near the top of Skids’s valve, and Skids’s calipers squeezed hungrily around the hard length buried inside him. 

_Skids was fragging the Commandant, and his spike was a perfect fit, it was already the best interface of Skids’s life and maybe this was no coincidence at all._

Too engineered. _Too perfect_. Too many little pieces fitting together in interlocking succession, building layer upon layer until Skids had ended up here, in the Commandant’s berth, lowering himself onto the Commadant’s spike, burning with lust for a Decepticon murderer and all of his own free will. 

But was it? Was it _really_? 

How long ago since Skids had been marched through the doors of Grindcore and felt a pulse of fear that the Decepticons might use him for sexual gratification? How long ago since Skids had hidden under the desk in the Commandant’s office and desperately self-serviced, his pleasure tainted by the terror that the Commandant might catch him? It didn’t seem that it had been so long ago at all. 

He had gone from rightful hate and fear and revulsion and defiance of the Decepticons to begging shamelessly for the Commandant to please let him service his Lord, and it had all happened so _quickly_. Yet Skids discovered, to his confusion, that he could not imagine _why_ he hadn’t always lusted after the Commandant. He knew he hadn’t, and that moreover, he _shouldn’t_ , but these dry facts meant nothing to the passion blazing in his circuits. 

_My very personal engineer._

That was what the Commandant had called Skids, but as Skids struggled to draw some air into his recalcitrant intakes, he realized that the truth might, in fact, be the other way around. If it was possible that the Commandant had _engineered_ all this. If every event stretching back to that box of candies laid out on the Commandant’s desk—no, _farther_ , if Snare had not _forgotten_ to feed Skids at all, but had been ordered _not_ to—if all those coincidences had not piled up one on top of another like sediment building a hillock into a mountain, but rather, been deliberately and intentionally stacked in formation, bricks on a foundation, building a gallows for Skids to hang himself on. 

And the worst part of that plan was that it would never have worked if Skids hadn’t been so damned _complicit._ Every step of the way the Commandant had given him a chance to fight back, to resist. Every step of the way he could have balked, could have struggled, could have said no—could have _forced_ the Commandant to tip his hand and use overt force to get his way. Instead Skids hadn’t even noticed he was being led along the garden path, hadn’t _wanted_ to notice and if he was noticing now, he was doing it in the full knowledge that he revelled in the act of interfacing the Commandant. 

Skids didn’t want to give any credence to any of those horrible thoughts. He wanted to believe his initial suspicion, that the Commandant was not as experienced as he’d let on, and that after struggling with his attraction to Skids, he’d finally found himself unable to resist his engineer, any more than Skids had been able to resist him. Skids wanted to believe that the two of them had been pulled together by random chance and a mutual attraction that neither of them could overcome. 

Skids gasped as a terrible idea occurred to him. 

…Either way, wasn’t _Skids_ responsible for this situation? 

Impaled on the Commandant’s spike, Skids found himself positioned between twin chasms. On one side was the knowledge that he was the kind of scum who’d sell out his friends, his morals, his government, everything he believed in to satisfy his lust for a cheap screw. The Commandant had _killed Quark_ —and Skids was still so hot for him that he’d _seduced_ him. Was _that_ the kind of person Skids really was inside? 

Skids didn’t want to believe it, so he looked at the other option. 

The other option was an understanding that Grindcore had taken all choices from him. From the first moment he’d walked through the gates of Grindcore, he’d been a pawn in the Commandant’s master plan. It had not mattered how smart he was—his cleverness meant nothing in this terrestrial Hell. 

Skids told himself that his lack of overt resistance didn’t mean he was responsible. The Commandant could have thrown him down and had his way with him if he hadn’t co-operated. He had gone to his new Lord willingly, but had he resisted, he would have ended up here anyway, with the Commandant’s spike hilted in his trembling valve. That would mean that the interface he was having right now was an inevitability that had nothing to do with his consent. 

Which horror was worse? The notion that he was a traitor, a sellout, scum? Or the idea that his free will was an illusion, that neither his intelligence nor his best efforts could spare him, that even his own thoughts had been twisted and used against him? __

Ah, but even scum had free will. Even scum could use its skills and its cleverness, if only in pursuit of despicable ends. Even scum was worthy of praise and admiration by fellow scum. 

“Skids,” the Commandant breathed, and his voice was a prayer, his sigh a symphony. “Skids, you’re so beautiful.” 

Skids moved. Just a tiny movement, but pleasure cascaded through his frame. His calipers fluttered, and his anterior node swelled in anticipation of touch. 

Free will existed. It _had_ to. Skids refused to believe that the Commandant had owned his soul from the beginning. The Commandant was powerful, cunning, masterful, _yes_ , but he was not omnipotent, not all-knowing. Skids had not shaken his blind faith in one God only to bow to another. 

And if the Commandant had been toying with him, then shouldn’t Skids have _noticed_ before _this_? Before he’d found himself in coitus with the Decepticon? Skids was more than smart: he was a _superlearner_. He’d studied psychology. If he was as smart as he believed he was, as he’d always been told he was, he should have seen the Commandant’s mind games a mile off. If they’d been there and he hadn’t seen them, he was stupid. If he’d willfully ignored them, he was a fool. 

And if there had been no games at all and Skids had come here solely to appease his own base instincts, then he was the worst kind of scum. 

Stupid, a fool, or scum? 

Skids asked himself which he was… 

…and knew the answer. 

Skids moved again of his own free choice and sighed in pleasure as his anterior node rubbed against the base of the Commandant’s spike. He was awake, aware, sober, sane…he was consenting. He _wanted_ this. 

_Not your fault. You’ve been manipulated into this situation and there was nothing you could have done about it. You’re the victim here._

Skids pumped his hips— _pleasure, glorious pleasure—_ and didn’t feel like a victim. Victims didn’t _adore_ their suffering. 

It was a curious thing, how his mind could not contemplate the possibility that his intelligence couldn’t save him, that this situation was out of his control. There were thoughts he didn’t want to face, and then there were thoughts he _couldn’t_ face. To even question the idea that he might not have pursued the Commandant of his own free will would shatter his sanity and send him tumbling down into that left-hand abyss of madness. 

His mind shied away and he let it. 

Skids rode the Commandant’s spike, and with each thrust Skids felt his memories sorting themselves into a comprehensible narrative. Skids had always had _weaknesses_. He got bored so easily. He’d been fickle, flitting from hobby to hobby and lover to lover, leaving people behind him in his dust. He’d never been able to say no to _novelty_. The Commandant would understand. The Commandant, he was told, had a few vices of his own. 

But Skids was evidently the sort of person so much a slave to his desires that he’d now succeeded in drawing the Commandant of Grindcore down to his level. He’d probably subconsciously wanted to screw the Commandant from the moment he laid eyes on the striking Decepticon who ran this prison. After all, he’d wasted no time accepting the Commandant’s offer to do some repairs. 

He was scum. He admitted it. He _embraced_ it. 

And because he _was_ scum, there was no reason not to enjoy this admittedly _excellent_ frag, this sinfully good tryst. Nor was there any reason that Skids could think of for why he ought to try to stop, or why he shouldn’t do it again. What was done was done…and he no longer had any soul left to salvage. 

Skids looked down at the Commandant, inscrutable behind his mask, and wept. “Sir. Sir, _it’s so good_.” 

“Ah, isn’t it?” the Commandant replied. He pressed a finger to the opening of his mask, and, before Skids could figure out what he was doing, he pressed the moisture-wet pad of his finger to Skids’s anterior node. 

_It’s not your fault if it feels good!_

_The Commandant engineered it this way!_

_You can still fight back! Tell him to stop. Even if he doesn’t, you’ll know you didn’t consent to this. You’ll know you tried._

_SHUT UP_ , Skids screamed at the voices in his head. 

And then overload overwhelmed him, and the Commandant clutched him tightly, crying out, overloading along with him, and all the voices fell silent. 

Ecstasy wracked his frame. Electricity crackled through his brain. Blocks of memory went offline. Skids’s subsystems locked those blocks with randomly generated access passwords and wiped the memory of the passwords immediately. Skids’s memories silenced themselves, annihilated themselves, and gave themselves over to the Commandant. 

Skids was wrong. His mind, not his soul, was his final surrender to the Warlord of Grindcore. But when his systems rebooted and he came online again, sprawled out across his Lord’s chest, his Master’s spike still occupying his valve, he had no recollection of it. He knew only that he had fully embraced his role as the Commandant’s very personal engineer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In no way the end. Fallout's gonna fall. All over.


	38. Difference

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will this story hit 50 chapters? I'm finishing my outline, and I know there's at least ten to go...
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's supported me in what, chapter wise, has been my longest fic.
> 
> #

Skids lay very still, stretched out over the Commandant like a blanket, with the Commandant’s spike still inside his valve. He caught his breath, trembling from a fear he could not name. The Commandant’s optics were dim; his fans rotated slowly and he breathed rhythmically in and out of his intake vents. Skids was almost certain the Decepticon was in recharge. 

The spike filling his valve was an inescapable reminder of what they’d done. 

_You fragged the Commandant of your own free will._

_You betrayed the Autobots completely._

_And you loved it._

His tanks churned, but for some reason Skids didn’t gag, nor did he curse himself. What was the point? It was done, and there was no undoing it now. 

Besides…even now his spark thrilled at the thought of the Commandant inside him. Filling him. Possessing him. 

_You can’t undo what you’ve done. It doesn’t matter if you’re sorry. It doesn’t matter if you have regrets. The past is written and nothing you do now can ever unwrite it. You screwed the Commandant and you loved every second and you’re scum._

Skids breathed in. He felt buzzed—high—though he knew there were no substances in his system. Skid’s lips parted in a gasp as he realized that there was no intoxication as heady, no experience as liberating, as the realization that he had nothing left to lose. 

_You’re already damned, so you can do whatever you want._

_What do you want to do?_

Skids pressed his lips to the Commandant’s throat. There was no response, so he nuzzled in deep, kissing him over and over, licking him even. The Commandant’s hands rose, clasping Skids around the waist. Skids drew back and saw the light brighten in the Commandant’s optics. 

The Commandant’s spike twitched in Skids’s valve. 

“Skids,” the Commandant breathed. His optics seemed glazed. “What a lovely dream.” 

For a moment Skids felt guilty. The Commandant had been having illicit fantasies about making love to _him_ , just the way he’d been having fantasies about the Commandant. And to a Decepticon, interfacing with an Autobot was just as wrong as interfacing with a Decepticon was to an Autobot. It wasn’t just Skids who’d crossed a line tonight. 

But it _was_ Skids who’d seduced the Commandant into crossing that line. 

How was he ever to tell the Commandant that this was no dream? 

Skids flattened his palms against the Commandant’s tank tracks and used his arms to brace himself as he lifted himself into a sitting position, mindful of the spike in his valve. “It’s all right, sir,” Skids said urgently, because he absolutely did not want the Commandant feeling dirty. To know that you were the worst kind of scum….Skids wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone. 

Surely he wasn’t the _worst_ kind of scum. He’d be as good to the Commandant as he could. 

“Skids?” the Commandant inquired, and Skids wondered if his expression was one of bewilderment underneath the mask. “Oh Skids…is this really happening?” 

Skids struggled to swallow. “You’ve been very kind to me, sir.” 

“Kind?” the Decepticon repeated as he reached up and lightly touched Skids’s cheek, stroking it tenderly. “You mean you…you don’t think I’ve, ah, brutalized you, or some such?” 

Skids felt incredulous. “How could you brutalize me when I’m the one who seduced you?” 

“Oh.” The Commandant seemed dazed. “Is _that_ what you did.” 

“Are you sorry?” Skids didn’t think he could bear it if the Commandant were sorry. 

“Skids,” the Commandant breathed. His hand fel away from Skids’s face. “Oh, Skids. Look.” 

Skids looked where the Commandant pointed and saw his valve lips stretched around the thick base of the Commandant’s spike. He couldn’t help gasping a little at the sight. His calipers tightened, too, and when they did the Commandant let out an exquisite moan. Skids felt his lips curve into a smile as the spike in his valve grew firm again, pressing tantalizingly against his nodes. 

“Skids,” the Commandant murmured. “I think it’s rather obvious how unrepentant I am.” 

“Sir,” Skids panted as his engine revved loudly enough for the Commandant to hear. “Me too.” 

There was really no need to fight it. Skids tucked his knees against each side of the Commandant’s hips and lifted his pelvis until only the head of the Commandant’s spike remained inside his valve. Then he dimmed his optics and felt his whole body go weak with desire as he lowered his body again and the Commandant’s spike sank home inside his valve once more. 

The Commandant moaned, a shockingly wanton sound from a mech so strict and disciplined. Skids felt a dirty little thrill knowing that he’d been successful in overcoming such a mech’s personal reservations, and then he felt ashamed and guilty…but not guilty enough to stop. 

The Commandant’s optics were wide and round, almost filling the holes in his mask. “Oh, Skids, we’re…” 

“Making love,” Skids interrupted, refusing to allow the Commandant to debase the moment with a word as clinical as _interfacing_. He tilted his head, offering the Commandant a coy little grin. “Would you like to make love with me some more?” 

For a moment Skids worried he’d been too forward. Then the Commandant spoke. “Yes. Skids, I’d like that very much.” Skids swore he could hear the smile under the Commandant’s mask. 

It probably matched the smile on his own lips. 

Skids pumped his hips, slowly at first, then a little faster. Delicious friction built up in his valve as his excitement spiralled higher. But the pleasure he felt meant nothing if the Commandant wasn’t along for the ride. 

“Is it good?” Skids asked, biting his lower lip. 

The Commandant reached his finger up, freeing Skids’s lip, as though he couldn’t bear to see Skids harm himself. “It’s so good,” the Commandant purred. “Skids, you’re wonderful.” His optics dimmed, as if to better savour the sensations. “It feels so good to be inside you,” he whispered. 

“It feels like you belong there,” Skids said boldly. 

The Commandant’s optics brightened again, and again Skids feared he’d gone too far, but then the Decepticon—his lover—moved underneath him, raising himself until he was half-sitting and able to reach Skids’s hips with his hands. 

“Is this all right?” the Commandant asked, as though Skids had any ability at all to defy him. 

But Skids wouldn’t want to protest even if he could. “Take hold of me,” he murmured, “and put me where you want me. Put me where it feels best.” 

And he did. The Commandant took forceful hold and shifted Skids until he was in a place that made the Commandant gasp with every thrust, and those thrusts were deep, powerful, relentless. The force of the penetration took Skids to the verge of pain, and though it occurred to him that he ought to be frightened, he found himself aroused instead, to the point of welcoming the sensation and revelling in it. Pleasure or punishment, he couldn’t tell, and as he overloaded it occurred to him that he might have lost the ability to tell the difference. 


	39. Morning

The Commandant overloaded with such force that Skids was certain that the Decepticon had knocked himself offline. Skids swore he saw the Commandant’s optics flicker and go dark. 

At that point, though, Skids would be first to admit that his judgment was impaired. He’d overloaded so many times himself that he felt as though he’d ascended to what the Primalists had called Perfect Union—the time when All Were One. 

Skids didn’t know about _all_ , but he and the Commandant were certainly _one_ , with the Commandant’s spike buried deep in Skids’s valve, moving together as though they were a single being in chase of perfect pleasure. 

Primalism, and likely every other religion, were probably wrong about how to achieve perfect oneness, Skids thought. He’d meditated and prayed and genuflected for hours and he’d never felt any sense of union like this. In fact, religion seemed to be letting him down quite a bit as of late, though he couldn’t quite remember why… 

He asked himself why and his only response was a feeling that told him he didn’t want to know. 

Skids contented himself with the realization that he’d given up his religion. The Commandant had proved to him that he’d been wrong about Primus. He’d been wrong about quite a lot of things….the world and his place in it and the Decepticon who now lay underneath him and inside him. 

Skids carefully lowered himself onto his Master’s chest, hoping to keep the physical connection between them. Skids’s valve ached from hard use, but he didn’t care. He lay atop his Lord, his fans blasting hot air, his frame ticking as it cooled, and listened to the Commandant’s fuel pump pounding just as hard as Skids’s own. He’d never known that surrendering himself to the Commandant of Grindcore would give him so much pleasure. 

He’d never known that he was the kind of scum who’d enjoy seducing a mass murderer. Who’d overload time and again for the monster who killed Quark and still find himself screaming for more. 

But pursuing that line of thought would only cause Skids to feel guilty, and such a feeling would be utterly futile. He belonged to the Commandant now and he would frag—or die—at the Commandant’s pleasure, and how he felt about it mattered not at all to the Commandant, the world, or a non-existent God. His only choice was to love it or fight it, and he would only hurt himself by fighting it. 

And it felt so good. 

Skids shuddered as the Commandant’s spike finally slipped from his valve and left him kneeling awkwardly over his jailer, wondering what to do next. There were no social guidelines for this situation. If Skids had cared about social decency whatsoever, he would never have gotten into this situation. 

But Skids had accepted that he was scum, and that acceptance had given him a terrible freedom. He had no morality left to ruin his delight at wearing the Commandant’s chains. 

He braced himself against the Commandant’s shoulders and swung his left leg off the Decepticon until he knelt at his warden’s side instead. 

Skids never could have foreseen what happened next. 

The Commandant reached up and put his hand on Skids’s back and pulled him down beside him, drawing Skids against his chest and holding him close. “My dear Skids,” the Commandant murmured in a voice that sounded more Vosian than Tarnian, lyrical and sweet, as though on the verge of song. And the Commandant’s spark kept time, pulsing in a faint rhythm underneath the Decepticon’s chest. Skids lay his cheek against the Commandant’s chest and listened. “My most perfect personal engineer.” 

Skids swore his spark felt warm. “My Lord,” he whispered. “My Master.” 

“I take it back,” the Commandant said softly. “I know that hell exists, but now I also know that heaven is possible.” 

“But you have to build it yourself,” Skids added. 

“ _We_ have to,” the Commandant corrected. “We have to build it together.” 

“My Commandant,” Skids said drowsily, “I’ll build anything you ask me to.” 

Skids wondered how he could possibly be tired. He was with his Master! Granted, he’d overloaded quite a bit, yes, but not as much as when the Commandant had used all those toys on him. On the other hand, this time he didn’t have aphrodisiac lighting his systems on fire. And he had been up quite late these last few nights, a ball of nervous energy fixated on the Commandant. Having finally gotten what he’d wanted so badly and so long, his power levels had dropped. His system craved recharge. 

The Commandant vented deeply and evenly. His fuel pump fell into a slow, steady rhythm, beating gently beneath Skids’s cheek. Skids looked up at his Master’s masked face and had to tilt his head to see through the optic holes. When he did, he realized that the Commandant’s optics were dim. His Lord had already entered recharge. 

Skids felt rather proud of himself. He’d done that. Him. 

Then he dimmed his own optics. He’d intended to savour his Commandant’s warmth, but his own fatigue overtook him and sent his mind spiralling down into sleep. 

# 

Skids woke up hours later, according to his internal chronometer. It wasn’t as reliable as it used to be. The Grindcore experience was intentionally disorienting, and there were no external chronometers by which to check its accuracy and re-set it. Not to mention the stresses he’d put on his frame, what with all the hunger and aphrodisiacs and exertion and hard re-sets and emotional distress he’d been subjected to. Still, though Skids wasn’t sure exactly what time it was, he could guess that he and the Commandant had slept through the night and a new work day was on the verge of dawning. 

Skids muffled a sob as he pressed himself against the Commandant. The Decepticon’s arm hung loosely over Skids’s shoulders. The big tank mech radiated warmth, and Skids dimmed his optics, knowing his night of pleasure was almost over, and he now lay on the verge of cold truths revealed in the harsh grey light of morning. 

When the Commandant woke up, there would be no happy outcome. Skids was under no illusions about what would happen next. 

_He’s had you now, and that means the chase is over. No more challenge. No more conquest. Now you’re an embarrassment. A liability._

_Now you go off to the smelting pool, and the Commandant finds a new prisoner to play with._

Skids was going to die, and the best he’d have to say for himself was that he’d had the greatest frag of his life right before the guillotine fell. 

So if he was doomed anyway, there was no point in feigning disgust or regret. Skids laid his head back on the Commandant’s chest, savouring the warmth of his Master’s frame. 

If he were lucky, he’d be able to seduce the Commandant again when the Decepticon woke up. One more time, before his life was over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everyone for the comments, encouragement and feedback. This chapter and the two previous were originally all one chapter. Based on the feedback I considered whether I could make this part more detailed and whether it would benefit the story if I did. Feedback + Ideas/in depth exploration that made the story better = three chapters, not one. 
> 
> Next: The Morning After, and after that, A Few Chapters Inside Tarn's Head.


	40. Face the Music

“Skids.” 

The Commandant’s voice seemed to come from very far away. 

Skids kept his optics dim for just a moment more. He needed a few seconds to collect himself, to accept his past and his present and his inevitable future, and to bolster his intentions to meet that future with some semblance of dignity, before he lifted his head to face the music. 

The Commandant wrapped his arms around Skids’s back and sat up in the berth. It was strange the way he cradled Skids as he changed position, until he held Skids in his lap. Then he lowered his head and murmured softly, “Skids, I’m very sorry to have to do this.” 

That was a lie, of course. To his surprise, Skids couldn’t even muster any bitterness. 

_I’m just getting what I deserve._

He would not beg. He would not scream. Or rather, he would only beg and scream once the Commandant had performed the necessary rituals which would lower him to that state. He would not shame himself by pleading for the Commandant’s mercy before the first blow even fell. He had already enjoyed the only mercy the Commandant of Grindcore would ever bestow on him. 

Skids clenched his valve on nothing. The Commandant’s spike was no longer inside him. 

_And you’ll never have it again_ . 

Somehow that thought made Skids feel sadder than the realization of his upcoming execution. On one level he knew he was irrationally obsessed. On another he accepted that he could not overthrow his obsession by force of will alone. And, in the end, it didn’t matter. He cared more that the Commandant had become his entire world and he…he was…. 

He was nothing to the Commandant. Just an idle amusement to entertain the Warlord of Grindcore in his off hours. Skids wondered how many little pets the Commandant had had before him. 

How many more he’d have after Skids was dead. 

Skids realized that could not let himself think about this—not now, and perhaps not ever. Not if he was to keep the last shreds of pride he still had. 

“I just got an emergency comm,” the Commandant said, and Skids’s optics flickered in confusion at the sudden change in subject. 

“Half an hour ago,” the Commandant continued, “Skyquake and his Predators repelled a guerilla attack on the northwest wall. I’ve received numerous damage reports from the perimeter, including the turret guns and long range sensors. I’m afraid I’m going to need you out there this morning on repair duty.” 

For a moment Skids couldn’t understand what the Commandant was saying; then his meaning sunk in, and Skids’s jaw dropped. “Sir?” he asked incredulously. 

“I know, I know, it _would_ be nice to spend the day together, but the Autobots evidently don’t appreciate that I had booked the day off work to spend with you.” The Commandant sounded almost sulky. “Skyquake can run the place day-to-day without me, but an incident like this is too much for him to handle without oversight.” 

“No, I mean…” 

The Commandant looked at him curiously. 

It was too late to stop his mouth now, so Skids blurted out the thought that was foremost in his mind. “You’re not going to have me executed?” 

The Decepticon blinked. Skids saw his Master’s optics fade to dimness and then flare brightly through the holes in his mask. “Is there some reason I’m unaware of that would necessitate such….extreme measures?” 

“I hope not,” Skids said honestly, “but I…I thought you’d be done with me now.” 

The Commandant set down the datapad and narrowed his optics. “Are you saying you don’t want to be my personal engineer any more?” 

“No!” Skids protested. 

The Commandant relaxed. “Then what is your concern?” 

“Um,” Skids said, trying to think of a delicate way to explain himself. “I don’t want to quit. _Ever_ , sir. I, ah, I just thought you’d…. _fire_ me.” 

“Why ever would I do that? Particularly after last night?” The Commandant sounded distressed as he asked, “You enjoyed that…didn’t you?” 

“Yes, sir, I did.” Skids felt like a fool having to put his thoughts into words. “I just didn’t think you were the kind of mech who’d want to have the same dessert every evening.” 

“ _Oh_ ,” the Commandant said, as if he’d only just now grasped Skids’s meaning. “Is that a problem if I am? Are you bored of me already?” 

Skids’s jaw dropped again. He’d… he’d never allowed himself to even consider that possibility. It had been outrageous enough to contemplate actually fragging the Commandant, let alone what might possibly come after. 

_If you don’t want to die, you’ll tell him it’s no problem at all,_ said the voice of reason in Skids’s head, but another voice was louder. 

_His spike? Again? Yes, please!_

Skids managed to nod stupidly and finally to gather the wherewithal to stammer, “No, sir. No, I would like that very much, sir.” 

The Commandant slid a finger under Skids’s chin and lifted it, forcing Skids to meet his gaze. “Did you really think,” he said, his tone chiding but gentle, “that I would throw you away when we’d only just come to an arrangement?” 

Skids gulped. 

“Last night aside, do you have any idea how much shanix I save from having you here? Before your arrival we spent ever so much on technicians. But you…you’re so _clever_.” The Commandant’s finger left Skids’s chin and joined its fellows for a light caress over Skids’s cheek. “You can fix _anything_ around here. And the funds I save can be reallocated to far more _enjoyable_ purposes.” The Commandant patted Skids’s face, then physically shifted him off his lap. “Let me show you.” 

Skids watched, stunned, as the Commandant rose to his feet and walked across the room to a sideboard. He uncorked a bottle of fancy engex, poured a serving into each of two goblets, and set the bottle down. The Commandant turned back to Skids, a glass in each hand, and held one of them out to his engineer. Skids noticed that the other glass had a straw in it. 

Skids had accepted it before he realized what he was doing. He was so accustomed, now, to obeying the Commandant without question. 

_Because service is its own reward._

“Skids,” the Commandant said softly as he sat on the berth next to Skids, “is that really all you think of yourself? That I would throw you away so carelessly?” 

Skids felt guilty. The Commandant obviously thought he was valuable. Why did he feel as though he were trash? Surely the Commandant knew better than he did? 

“Don’t you realize how precious you are to me?” the Commandant asked. 

Surely his feelings were wrong. 

“I want you to be my _personal_ engineer,” the Commandant murmured, “in _every_ way.” 

Skids wasn’t scum. He was…he was the Commandant’s prized personal engineer. 

The Commandant lifted his glass. “To our new arrangement.” 

Skids bowed his head, clinked his goblet against his Lord’s, and drank. 

The engex was light and bubbly and very strong. Skids’s head whirled, and he wondered if it was from the engex hitting his systems or the emotional whiplash of realizing that he was not a consumable good to be used up and thrown away after all. He was…he was the Commandant’s _prize_. 

“You did have a nice time last night, didn’t you, Skids?” the Commandant inquired. 

“Oh, yes, sir,” Skids agreed. He swallowed again and realized his glass was empty. 

“I’m sorry to give you such a small serving, but unfortunately I need you clear-headed when you’re out fixing those guns. Finish it up, and tonight…” 

The Commandant had to be smiling wickedly behind that mask. 

“Tonight perhaps we can celebrate a job well done.” 

What could be said in response? 

“Yes, sir!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Devil's Night, and what could be more devilish than Tarn?
> 
> Next up: a few chapters in Tarn's head.


	41. Indivisible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for descriptions of hypothetical assault. 
> 
> This chapter and the five following are the “abuser’s point of view” chapters where we find out why the Commandant created such a convoluted plan to get Skids into his berth—and what he might do next. We’re inside Tarn’s head seeing the world through his eyes, and he’s justifying his actions with reasons that make sense to him. This might be an uncomfortable experience for some readers, to get so personal with someone who’s done such an abhorrent thing without regrets, so consider this your “label on the can” before you decide whether or not you’d like to taste what’s inside.

Interlude: Indivisible 

Skids’s words lingered in the Commandant’s mind throughout the day. 

_Did he really think I would just toss him into the smelter?_

To the Commandant of Grindcore, it seemed foolish to go to all that work to get Skids into his berth, only to send him to his death the next morning. It would be like viewing a fine work of art and then setting it on fire. Now that the Commandant had Skids where he wanted him, he fully intended to _savour_ him. 

Still, the Commandant tried to consider the matter from Skids’s point of view. He supposed that the notion of executing Skids now that he’d had his fun, though repulsive, was not an unreasonable conclusion for a prisoner to draw. And Skids _was_ still his prisoner, no matter what else he might be. Funny how the Commandant now thought of Skids as his engineer, his assistant, his aide, his lover…not his prisoner. 

Doubtlessly there were mechs who would do exactly what Skids feared. Mechanisms who saw their playthings as disposable and treated them cavalierly as a result. The Commandant himself had played the role from time to time to keep others frightened and compliant, even if personally he felt as though officers who considered their prisoners—or worse, their troops—as a personal harem should be taken out back, stripped for parts, and dropped into the recycler. 

_Are you one of them now?_

The thought gave him pause. 

_No. This situation is different. Entirely._

_Skids made the offer to me. Over and over again._

If the Commandant were one of _those_ mechs, he could have had Skids from the very first moment he’d walked into the cell Skids and Quark had shared. Could have hauled Skids to his feet, spun him around, pinned him against the wall. Could have torn open his valve panel and taken him then and there. 

The Commandant shuddered. The idea of assaulting an unwilling prisoner turned him off, completely. 

It _had_ crossed his mind to utter threats against Quark. Offer a bargain—that if Skids wanted his cellmate whole and unharmed, he’d come quietly to the Commandant’s berth. The Commandant’s mouth had watered at the thought of Skids lying on his berth, obediently spreading his thighs for the Commandant’s pleasure. But the fantasy had gone sour when the Commandant had realized that this method would only grant him the _illusion_ of enthusiasm. Skids would come to loathe him, and the Commandant’s true desire would remain out of reach. 

_What do you really want?_

The Commandant had asked himself that question shortly after he’d seen Skids’s name on the prisoner intake roster, immediately after he’d discarded the idea of offering to trade Quark’s continued well-being for Skids’s compliance. 

_What I always wanted._

# 

Skids of Nova Cronum was easily the most popular member of Senator Shockwave’s Outlier Academy, and it wasn’t hard to see why. Clever, upbeat, fun-loving and naturally charming, mechs instinctively gravitated towards him. Though Skids was neither sleek enough to be as conventionally attractive as a speedster, nor stocky enough for those who liked their lovers thick and chunky, he somehow made the middle ground work for him in a way that tied knots into the systems of a small, shy outlier named Damus of Tarn, better known to his fellows as Glitch. 

In his early life, Glitch had been painfully average in every way except for his aptitude for music. Being cursed with an unwanted gift had done nothing to boost his self-esteem. He was forever inadvertently breaking things, and sometimes, people. He’d struggled so hard to hide his power from the Functionists, even when it meant withdrawing from others. But they’d caught him anyway, and between his powers and his politics, they’d punished him with empurata. 

After that his musical talent had meant nothing. He’d lost his job and would probably have starved to death in the gutters if Senator Shockwave, a long-time patron of the Vosian Opera House, hadn’t come to find him and bring him into a special academy he’d started for mechs with unexplainable talents. 

But even among his fellow outliers, Glitch had struggled to fit in. Empurata made it difficult for other people to read his expressions; the effect was deliberately uncanny, designed to make others uncomfortable. The nature of his talent didn’t help, particularly when he lost control of it and injured his comrades. Already timid and withdrawn, with poor self-esteem, Glitch hovered on the periphery of the group, taking part without ever fitting in. 

Except for Skids. 

Skids had been the first person after Shockwave to talk to him, the first person to put effort into getting to know him. Skids had encouraged Glitch to work on his talent and put it to practical use. When he did well, Skids smiled at him, and that smile illuminated his world like a sun; and when he screwed up and Skids snapped at him, Glitch felt a shadow over his very spark. Glitch would have given anything for Skids to smile at him always. 

What would it be like, to become the _conjunx endura_ of such a mech? Would Skids’s effortless charisma override the effects of empurata and a barely-controlled talent at breaking things? Glitch dreamed about going to parties at Skids’s side, meeting people, making friends. Skids encouraging Glitch to sing for admiring crowds. Skids could convince those crowds to be quiet and listen to the little minibot who was more than meets the optic. If Glitch were with Skids, people might finally think Glitch was worthy of some respect. 

Glitch knew these fantasies would never come true. Skids was not the kind of mech who settled down with a single lover. Indeed, there’d been a little drama amongst the Outliers…Windcharger accusing Skids of cheating, Skids arguing that he’d never promised monogamy, Trailbreaker looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. 

And, of course, after Shockwave disappeared, Glitch had watched in silence from behind a rock outcropping and watched as Roller had laid Skids down on the sun-baked surface of Cybertron and made love to him. Glitch had kept perfectly still, knowing he should not be peeping and yet utterly unable to tear his gaze away. What would it be like if _he_ and not Roller were thrusting into Skids’s welcoming valve? What would it be like if Skids made those noises while looking into _his_ single optic? Glitch had never wanted anything so much in his life. 

Glitch had known from the beginning that he’d never be Skids’s only partner, not even his favoured partner, and he’d accepted that condition. He would be jealous, yes, sharing his lover—knowing that some nights he’d be alone while Skids overloaded in other mechs’s arms. But having Skids, even a little bit of Skids, would be sweet enough to make the torment worth it. 

He’d rather have Skids, the pleasure and the pain together, than look twice at anyone else. 

Glitch had waited until he had proper hands again before he’d made his offer. He’d been nervous but excited, knowing that Skids’s open relationships had their upside—Skids had plenty of experience and would know how to initiate Glitch gently. 

Glitch’s world shattered when Skids said no. 

“I’m flattered,” Skids said, with a soft and devastating smile on that handsome face, so near and yet so impossibly out of reach. “But you and I…I think of you as a comrade.” 

_What about Windcharger and Trailbreaker and Roller?_ Glitch wanted to scream at Skids. _Don’t you think of them as comrades too?_

_No, they’re “comrades you want to fuck_ ,” _and I’m not._

_Why not?_

“Is it my talent?” Glitch had said instead. He was ready to assure Skids that he’d been practicing hard, and he was certain he could keep his talent under control. Or if Skids would rather, Glitch would plant his hands on the ground and let Skids take him from behind—he’d do anything, _anything_ Skids asked, if only Skids would want him. 

Skids’s discomfort had shown on his face, and in that expression Glitch had understood that the answer was _no_. 

_“No, but there’s no kind way to say what it really is, so maybe I should lie and say yes.” That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it, Skids?_

Glitch had tried again, desperate for an answer he could understand. “Is it the empurata?” 

Empurata was designed to be uncanny and uncomfortable and though it would be grotesquely unfair to be rejected for something that someone else had done to him, at least it would be a reason Glitch could perhaps someday undo, the way he’d had his hands fixed. 

Skids remained silent. 

_It’s not your talent that’s the problem, and it’s not the empurata either. It’s you. You and your loathsome little personality._

“It’s okay,” Glitch had said, though it was everything but okay. “I hope we can stay friends.” 

_You’ll screw everyone else. Why not me?_

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” Skids said softly, and every word was like a nail hammered into Glitch’s spark, and in that moment Glitch came to understand that _love_ and _suffering_ were indivisible, that it wasn’t really love if it didn’t come with pain. 


	42. The Hand That Holds The Leash

Interlude: The Hand That Holds The Leash 

For a while the Commandant had truly believed that Megatron of Tarn had wiped all thoughts of Skids of Nova Cronum from his mind. If Skids was a sun, Megatron was a supernova; and if Skids’s frown could cast a shadow, Megatron’s disapproval could plunge a world into winter. Glitch had not hesitated to give his everything to Megatron: his mind, his body, his talents, and his soul. 

“Serve me,” Megatron had whispered, “and you can have everything you desire.” 

Megatron had arranged for Glitch to be reconstructed. Not just a new face—a whole new body. A big, powerful body, at the very limit of the weight his spark could bear. An armoured body that commanded respect. A frame with the capacity to instill fear. 

A frame that Megatron had initiated into the knowledge of interface. 

Damus of Tarn had given his new role his everything, and he had excelled. Once again he was good at something, and this time his body and his talent and his personality did not hold him back. For the first time his talent was truly a gift—Megatron wanted certain mechs to hurt, and Damus made it happen, with all the care and artistry he’d once applied to his singing. 

Intoxication spun his head like engex when he finally saw that agony could be an art, screams a symphony, torment a craft. He needed only purge his own squeamishness. His own flaws, again, holding him back from realizing his true potential. 

He was still a failure, of course. He struggled when he saw mechs in pain, even though he knew that their suffering was desirable to his Lord. One of them had detected his discomfort and dared to mock him for it, even as he’d killed him. Megatron had disapproved. 

The very next day, Damus had shown up to work with a mask to hide his expressions. Nobody would mock him ever again. They would not _dare._

He learned to be merciless, and Megatron had been impressed. What was his own discomfort next to Megatron’s approval? Megatron’s warm regard was worth any price. 

After some time, Megatron had given him a special mission—to take command of Grindcore, the infamous prison, and oversee the harvesting of _sentio metallico_ for a top-secret project. At first Damus had been thrilled. He would show Megatron that no one else could do the job as he could. 

But as months turned into years in the dismal, soul-crushing environment of Grindcore, Damus of Tarn felt increasingly forgotten. Megatron visited rarely, and when he did come, he was increasingly distracted with the war on other fronts. Interface was a hurried affair, conducted quickly before communicators pinged and demanded Megatron’s attention. Most of the time, Damus sat alone in his office, turning up his sound system to drown out the sound of screams and reminding himself that it wasn’t love if it didn’t hurt. 

So why did he feel increasingly _angry_? 

Why did he feel as though Megatron had _used him_ and then dumped him in this terrible place, where the very air hung heavy with year after year of unrelenting misery, where the prisoners all despised him and the guards became increasingly callous and brutal the longer they served here? Why did he have to wallow in the echoes of the torment he created; why did he have to live surrounded by unrelenting misery and never-ending pain? When would he receive his reward for the sacrifices he’d made to serve the Decepticon cause? To serve _Megatron?_

He could understand Megatron hurting him—and it was his fault, really, he’d known going in to the relationship that Megatron had many partners, he’d known he wouldn’t ever be Megatron’s only lover or even his favourite, and he’d known that the best way to express his devotion was through suffering—but he couldn’t bear the thought that Megatron might have _forgotten him entirely._

He dared not desert his post, so he’d tried to distract himself with fine engex and classic literature and other consumable entertainments… 

…and then he’d seen the name on the roster of new prisoners— _Skids of Nova Cronum—_ and his spark had swirled madly in his chest, even all these centuries later. 

_Become a Decepticon and you can have everything you desire._

The Commandant remembered that Glitch of Tarn had once desired Skids. 

And no, it wasn’t enough for the Commandant to fuck his prisoner, or even to coerce him into trading interface for something else—say, his cellmate’s life. Glitch of Tarn had desired Skids of Nova Cronum’s _affections,_ and _love_ was not a thing that could be created and given on demand. It grew between two mechs, or it did not. 

And as the Empyrean Suite shifted into a higher key, and the smelting pool burbled and the sparkling energon fizzed in the goblet in his hand, the Commandant of Grindcore wondered if love could perhaps be _nurtured._ If it could be _arranged_ as Eucryphia had arranged his symphony, instrument after instrument chiming in to shape the song and guide it to its stunning and inevitable conclusion. If Damus could mold Skids the way Megatron had molded him, putting Skids’s considerable talents to use for the Decepticon cause, while Skids thanked him for the privilege. 

While Skids begged for his Master’s caress. 

Well. Megatron had asked Damus to oversee a project turning Grindcore into a place of experimentation. Surely that mandate could be stretched to include a few experiments of Damus’s own. 

Why, he was already conducting one…the one where he went down to the isolation chamber and had _chats_ with whatever prisoner Skyquake had brought down to him that day. It was always the constructed-cold prisoners. They had no _sentio metallico_ to donate in the smelting pools. They could at least serve some use. 

Damus talked to them, and as he talked he practiced using his talent. At first he’d concluded his chats by using his long-range machinery-destroying ability to physically pull their bodies apart, but lately he’d been spared the need to do that. Lately he’d been able to coax their sparks into giving up by the power of his voice alone. Every day he got better at it. Every day his talent became more reliable. When his experiment was done he’d have a terrifying new power in his arsenal. 

_Weaponized conversation._

So why not one more experiment, then? 

If it failed, he could always talk Skids to death—a kinder end—and put his body into the smelting chamber, and no one would ever need to be the wiser. 

# 

But he had _succeeded_. The smelting chamber had been the last resort, if all his wiles had failed. 

The Commandant wondered if he’d secretly expected to fail—if that was why he was feeling so surprisingly warm right now. 

Why, he’d even found a way around the rather significant challenge of never actually having used his spike before. He’d been so frightened that he’d finally get to interface with Skids and Skids would realize, there and then, that the Commandant had no idea what he was doing. Wouldn’t _that_ have been a disaster. Skids would have laughed at him and he’d have had no choice but to fire up the smelting pool. 

He’d gotten around that challenge rather nicely, he thought. Tease Skids long enough, and his poor, hot, desperate engineer had done all the work, fucking himself on the Commandant’s spike while the Commandant watched. 

And when the Commandant could no longer fight off his overload—and really, how long could he be expected to, with Skids moaning and panting and writhing around like that, his calipers all aflutter—all he’d needed to do was press a moist finger to Skids’s node and Skids had overloaded as if on command, and the Commandant had overloaded with him. 

There really was something to be said for playing a role where you were always effortlessly in command. If you could be convincing, everyone else fell into line around you. And Damus of Tarn was nothing if not a born actor. 

Skids was utterly in awe of him now, and the Commandant wondered if next time he might be brave enough to lay Skids out on his back and take a little more initiative with his oh-so-willing engineer. All he’d have to do was tease Skids for a while until the slightest stimulation made him overload; then it wouldn’t matter if the Commandant wasn’t particularly skilled with his spike. 

Wasn’t _that_ a thought to occupy the mind. 

It took all of the Commandant’s iron self-discipline to focus on his job while Skyquake briefed him on the morning’s attack. A small Autobot strike team had bombed the northwest wall of Grindcore, damaging the defenses and landing five of the guards in medbay before being repelled. Falcon had a squad out beyond the walls now, tracking the Autobots’ retreat. 

The guards were all expected to survive, but Stalker would be under the tender care of Grindcore’s medical team for some time to come. Tarn shuddered and didn’t envy him the experience. He would have to keep close watch on his medics to make sure they behaved themselves. It was one thing if prisoners didn’t receive quality care, but loyal Decepticons… That was what came from staffing one’s infirmary with criminal sadists with medical training. 

As attacks went, it could have been a lot worse. The Commandant supposed that a little paperwork and a few repairs were not so bad, in the larger scheme of things, but no matter how much he felt as though Megatron were ignoring him, he did not want to come to his Lord’s attention on account of incompetence or failure. He forced himself to do his duty, ensuring repairs were effected, tactics were analyzed, and reports were filed. Only then would he let himself consider how best to spend his evening with his personal engineer. 

He was on his way to his last stop—the med bay—when his comm link rang. 


	43. Authorization

The Commandant activated his comm link, feeling irritable. He wanted to finish up his work for the day and get back to his quarters, where he could spend his evening enjoying the company of his very amenable engineer. Alas, duty called. 

“Sir, this is Skydive. Skids has finished his assigned tasks and I am returning him to his cell. I…” 

There was a scuffling sound. “…me speak to him,” came Skids’s voice over the comm. 

More scuffling. Something unintelligible. Static. A cry. 

The Commandant felt fury well up in his throat. How _dare_ Skydive lay a hand on _his_ engineer? 

“Sorry for the interruption, sir,” said Skydive. 

“What was that about?” the Commandant demanded, his voice cutting. 

“I…” Skydive panted, as though in pain. The Commandant realized his talent had bled into his voice, carried on his anger. And it had worked, even through a _communicator_. How _interesting_. The Commandant made a note to experiment in more detail later—with someone more disposable. 

Skydive caught his breath. “The prisoner is alleging that he should be delivered to your office, not his cell.” 

The Commandant’s spark spun with joy to realize that _Skids_ had taken the initiative to seek out his company. “That is correct,” he said smoothly. 

“I’m sorry, sir. I never received authorization for that.” 

The Commandant smiled under his mask. “Oh, dear. It must have slipped my mind thanks to this morning’s excitement. I will rectify that matter tomorrow. In the meantime, yes, please see Skids to my office.” 

“Sir?” Skydive sounded nervous. “I’m supposed to cover Falcon’s post in the south guard tower while he’s out pursuing the Autobots…” 

“What are you getting at?” the Commandant asked impatiently. 

“There’s no one here to supervise the prisoner.” 

“What…oh, you mean _Skids_?” 

“Yes, sir.” Skydive sounded confused. 

The Commandant would need to write a very detailed memo to ensure everyone understood Skids’s new position in the prison hierarchy. “That’s not a problem, Skydive.” 

“Sir, I…” Skydive fell silent, and the Commandant knew why. Leaving a prisoner unattended in the Commandant’s office was a terrible breach of security. But Skids wasn’t just a prisoner any longer. He had been commandeered as Grindcore staff, thanks to the Commandant’s charms. 

“Skydive, let me send you a direct authorization to leave Skids in my office, pending tomorrow’s memo. Will that be acceptable?” 

Skydive’s relief was evident in his voice. “Yes, sir.” Such an authorization would make the Commandant, not Skydive, responsible if anything went wrong. 

For a brief moment the Commandant worried that perhaps Skids had played him, after all. He swallowed his fear and addressed Skydive. “Can you hand this comm to Skids for a moment?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

There was static, and then the Commandant heard a very familiar voice. “This is Skids, sir.” 

“Skids. I’ve instructed Skydive to take you to my office and leave you there. I would like you to warm up some energon from the flagons in the corner and have it ready for me. I am hoping to be back within the hour after I give our dearly devoted medical staff a little reminder about first doing no harm.” 

“Yes, sir!” 

“I trust I can leave you unattended without any…untoward behaviour on your part? Reading of confidential files and the like?” 

“Absolutely, sir.” 

“Excellent. I hope to see you shortly. Out.” 

The Commandant broke the connection and paused for a moment in the hallway, feeling a strange sensation in his fuel tanks. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t just the remote possibility that Skids might be playing a game of his own. No, the Commandant was almost certain he had Skids on his hook. Skids had truly believed the Commadant was going to kill him, and had he been stringing the Commandant along, such a belief would have caused him to break character. Skids’s fear had smelled real to the Commandant, who had seen an abundance of fear since he’d come to Grindcore. Skids could not be working for Autobot Intelligence. It had to be something else. What was making him feel so unsettled? 

The Commandant realized that he was _nervous_. 

Last night had been the culmination of a battle plan. A hard-earned victory. Tonight…tonight there were no more games to play, no more carefully outlined steps to maneuver Skids through. Tonight there was nothing to do but savour the fruits of his labour. 

That, of course, was a far more nebulous and uncertain thing than enacting the next stage of an operation. Perhaps it was natural for him to be anxious. 

The Commandant reminded himself that this was not exactly a _date_. There was no _courtship_ involved. Skids was already _his_ , pure and simple. 

He had no need to fear. He already knew he couldn’t lose. 

# 

The Commadant put Glit in charge of overseeing Stalker and then he pulled aside the other two medics—Sauder and Arcweld—and gave them a long, through lecture about how he expected Stalker to be back to work and better than ever in short order, and that if they absolutely _must_ play with their patients, to seek out _prior approval_. He sweetened the pot with an offer: if the two of them could learn to follow the rules, he might send them the occasional recalcitrant prisoner for _re-education_ or _disposal_ , as appropriate. 

They seemed amenable. _Strangely_ amenable. _Enthusiastic_ , even. The Commandant had despaired of ever rehabilitating those two—they seemed to be wired with a predisposition to sadism, an utter lack of empathy, and an overpowering need to kill. They felt the urge to take lives the way most mechanisms felt hunger or thirst. No amount of punishment was ever going to change their fundamental natures. 

Now the Commandant wondered if he even _needed_ to rehabilitate them. Primus forbid he entertain Functionist thoughts, but…there could be a use for killers on the road to the new Decepticon order. 

Another experiment, then. The next prisoner who got out of line would not be sent to the smelter or quietly executed. The Commandant would give him to Sauder and Arcweld to play with, and then the Commandant would ensure that all of Grindcore was kept up-to-date on the status of the medics’ games. Then he would see if discipline improved. 

If it did, and if Sauder and Arcweld could be taught to focus their urges on authorized kills, then perhaps Sauder and Arcweld were on the wrong side of the bars. Perhaps rather than getting them to _stop_ , he should instead encourage them to be more selective in their choice of targets. 

He would see how this plan played out in the days to come. Right now, as the Commandant headed back to his office, his thoughts were consumed by another plan—one that had come to fruition. 

He hesitated right outside his door, feeling his tanks churning with nervousness again. Would it be awkward, facing Skids after the things they’d done last night? Would Skids be as amenable now that he had nothing to lose, or would he be bitter, consumed by regrets, ready to provoke the Commandant into ending his life? 

The Commandant put his hand on the access panel and paused. He thought he’d heard something in his office. 

Was that _music?_

The Commandant hastily opened the door, stepped inside his office, and caught his breath. 

The main panel lights were off. The Commandant knew for certain they’d been working when he left, and he’d had his talent well under control today. Surely they would not have broken in his absence. They were too newly fixed to have worn out already. 

That meant that the glowing lanterns around the room were there for _ambience._

The energon he’d requested was simmering in the warmer, filling the room with a delicious scent that made the Commandant’s fuel tanks rumble. The music playing on his stereo was one of Eucryphia’s lesser-known works. His office was immaculate, everything in its place, save for a tray on the table in front of his couch, which held a doily, goblet, straw, and tray of jellied energon. 

The Commandant was still processing this information when he heard a sound that was not part of the symphony. 

Skids stood in the doorway to the Commandant’s private chambers. Behind that door was the Commandant’s berth, but also the Commandant’s washrack. Skids had evidently been in the latter, judging by the shine on his frame. He held his hands clasped together in front of him. Instead of looking directly at the Commandant, he looked in the general direction of the door and kept his gaze downcast. 

“Welcome home, my Lord,” Skids said. 

The Commandant felt his fuel pump skip a beat. 

Surely it would be worth spending his days in the miserable hell of Grindcore for the good of the Decepticon Cause, if he could come home each night to music playing softly on the stereo and warm energon on the table and _Skids_ , his personal engineer, here to greet him on his return. 

His spark fluttered. He’d hoped Skids would be compliant but _this_ —his engineer had truly gone above and beyond. 

Skids twisted his hands together. “I took the liberty of using the washrack. I hope you don’t mind. I was so grimy from the repairs today….I didn’t want you to see…” 

The Commandant approached him, understanding at last that Skids was fearing reprisal for overstepping his boundaries. Punishment was the very last thing on the Commandant’s mind. “That’s perfectly fine, Skids. Look at you. Look how lovely you are.” The Commandant lay his hand on Skids’s shiny chest, moving it up to trace his collar assembly, his throat, the curve of his jaw. He held Skids’s chin in his palm and lifted his engineer’s head so their gazes met. “Have you done all this for me?” 

Skids couldn’t nod. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. He seemed hypnotized by the Commandant’s optics. 

Damus of Tarn felt his spark almost ready to burst with an inexpressible happiness. 

“Oh, Skids,” he whispered. “It’s good to be home.” 


	44. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a countdown to 2018....
> 
> Call it reverse psychology--if I start 2018 reveling in the garbage fire, maybe the year as a whole will turn out otherwise?

The Commandant’s mind was still whirling as he took a seat on his couch and watched Skids lift the energon decanter from its warmer. Skids brought the flask to the table, poured a generous serving into the Commandant’s goblet, thoughtfully added the straw, and handed the cup to the Commandant with a bow. 

“Why, thank you, Skids,” the Commandant said graciously as he accepted the fuel. 

Skids placed the decanter on its doily and then simply stood at ease. The Commandant realized his engineer was awaiting a command. 

“Why don’t you come sit here with me?” he invited, patting the couch beside him. 

He expected Skids to get a cup of his own before taking a seat at the other end of the couch. Instead, Skids rounded the table and sat right next to the Commandant, close enough for the Commandant to feel his warmth but not close enough to touch. 

The Commandant slid his free arm around Skids’s back and Skids leaned into the touch, resting his head on his Master’s tracked shoulder. 

_Delightful._ The Commandant took a sip of the warmed fuel while holding his engineer close. His optics squinted with happiness. This was as close to heaven as he’d ever been. Except… 

Sharing a meal would be the proper thing to do. He glanced down at Skids. “Did you fuel already?” 

“No, sir.” 

The Commandant was surprised by that answer. There was fuel aplenty here in his office. “Aren’t you hungry? I’m told you worked hard today.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then why…” 

Skids pulled away. “I didn’t want to presume,” he said, wringing his hands. “Bad enough that I was all over grease and needed to wash…” 

“Oh, _Skids_ ,” the Commandant said. “Whatever shall I do with you?” 

Skids’s face took on a dreamy expression. “Whatever you please, sir.” 

Oh. _Oh_. The Commandant could hardly believe his good fortune. 

“I think,” he chided gently, “that I will have to give you some lessons in self-care. I’ll never punish you for keeping yourself clean and pretty. Especially in a place like this.” 

“Not even if I use your fancy wax?” Skids asked hopefully. 

“Not even if you use my fancy wax,” the Commandant agreed, and suddenly an image sprang into his mind. 

He could take Skids to his personal oil bath and soak for an evening, drink in hand, his pretty engineer on his lap. Afterwards, they could take out that fancy wax and take turns polishing one another to a mirror shine. It would feel so good to lay on his berth and let Skids oil the tiny gears in his tank tracks. And it would be such fun to buff his engineer and see if he could tease Skids into overheating while playing innocent all the while. He was certain that sooner or later Skids would do something that would result in the two of them getting all manner of scuffs in their newly polished metal. 

Oh, the _possibilities._ There were an endless number of lovely things that he could do with his new engineer. No, there absolutely would _not_ be a smelting pool in Skids’s future, or a visit to Sauder and Arcweld either, not if the Commandant could help it. He would take proper care of his engineer and he would keep him satisfied so he would always feel fortunate to be exactly where he was—at the Commandant’s side. 

“And I want you to fuel yourself regularly.” He held out his goblet to Skids. “Here, drink.” 

Skids took the goblet, but he hesitated to taste the fuel inside. The Commandant’s breath stopped in his intakes. “Why, _Skids_ ,” the Commandant marvelled. “Am I to understand that you want me to feed you?” 

He drew his engineer into his lap and whispered into his audio, “Do you like that sort of thing? When I filled the tube with medical grade and watched you drink it from my hand? Is that a kink of yours, my dear engineer?” 

The Commandant stroked Skids’s cheek and felt a rise in temperature as Skids’s faceplates heated. “No, sir…ah, that is, sir…” 

“Yes?” The Commandant needed all his willpower to curl his hands over Skids’s shoulders when he wanted to explore his frame, but it would be cruel to ask a question and then keep his engineer too flustered to answer it. 

“I, ah, that was never a particular kink of mine before, sir, but…” Skids ducked his head. “It felt good to be held.” 

“Then _fuel_ ,” the Commandant purred, “and let me _hold_ you.” 

Skids needed no further coercion. He drank hungrily, readily, and the Commandant gave in to temptation and let his hands wander freely. He traced Skids’s chest, ran his fingers down Skids’s side, and finally ended up rubbing lazy circles on Skids’s belly while his engineer fueled. He could feel Skids’s engine knocking every once in a while and gentled his touch to careful, soothing strokes. 

“My, you’re running rough,” the Commandant murmured. 

Skids looked distressed. 

“Have no fear, my engineer,” the Decepticon whispered. “I’m sure a few weeks of quality fuel will smooth that out. Oh, yes. You work so hard…you deserve to be fed well.” 

Skids obediently sipped at the cup, but then he winced. His engine knocked hard against the Commandant’s hand. “It’s rich,” he said tentatively. 

The Commandant chuckled. “You can say it,” he soothed. “When it’s just you and I together in these quarters, you can speak freely.” 

Skids took a deep breath. “My belly’s sore.” He handed the goblet to the Commandant, who took it. 

“I imagine it will take some time for your tanks to adjust to a quality diet. That’s all right, Skids. When you’re hungry again, you’re to help yourself to my energon stores. All right?” 

“Yes, sir.” Skids dimmed his optics. 

The Commandant was not in a hurry to evict Skids from his lap. It was actually quite agreeable to sit here and sip the rest of his fuel while his free hand caressed his engineer’s fuel-filled belly. Skids sighed contentedly as his engine settled into a low, steady purr and his head rested on the Commandant’s chest. 

“Sir?” Skids said. “I think…I think there’s something we should talk about.” The tone in Skids’s voice made it evident that Skids did _not_ want to talk about whatever was on his mind. 

The Commandant felt a chill of ice in his spine as he set his goblet aside. Oh, _no_ , there was no _way_ that Skids was going to get squeamish and regretful _now_ , not when the Commandant had finished his fuel and started to relax and had _only just_ begun to feel a certain heat in the vicinity of his spike. 

The Commandant let his hand drop towards Skids’s valve panel, tracing nonchalant circles with his index finger. “I already told you that you have my permission to speak.” But if the Commandant didn’t like what he heard, he’d pop Skids’s valve panel and thoroughly exploit his engineer’s weakness for having his anterior node played with. The Commandant doubted Skids could choke out a proper expression of regret while the Commandant flicked his node back and forth, back and forth. 

“I think today’s attack was a reconnaissance,” Skids said. 

The Commandant froze at the implications. He was not safe after all. Fear trickled down his spine as he thought about disappointing Megatron. 

Skids cried out, a gasp of want. The Commandant forced his hand to resume moving. Skids could tell him more; then he’d know what to do. He hadn’t disappointed Megatron _yet_. 

Skids sighed, smiling broadly, as the Commandant’s finger trailed over his valve panel. 

Well. _This_ was an unusual way to interrogate an Autobot. 

But as Skids moved his own hand to the catch on his valve panel, the Commandant decided that it was not an _unpleasant_ way to interrogate a, well, _former_ Autobot. 


	45. Interrogate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are starting another year....
> 
> They say that what you do on January 1 sets a precedent for the entire year. I'm not at my best this year, so either this is reverse psychology, or this is the year of letting the freak flag fly.
> 
> Forget trash fires, this year we're setting the whole damn dump on fire, Dumpcano-style. (Yes, Dumpcano is a thing you can Google.)
> 
> And hopefully this year I finally finish this fic...and start the sequel.
> 
> #

The Commandant folded his hand over Skids’s, halting him from opening his valve panel. 

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” the Decepticon murmured, “and then perhaps we might go to the berth and think of more pleasant things?” 

“Yes, sir,” Skids whispered. He swallowed, but his hips shifted against the Commandant’s hand, and the Commandant relented. 

“Don’t worry,” the Decepticon soothed, “I’m not going anywhere.” He pressed gently on Skids’s valve panel, overtop of the anterior node. “Now what’s this about reconnaissance?” 

Skids sighed and relaxed, his hips pumping gently as the Commandant rubbed his valve panel and his lips spilled over with secrets. “At first glance the attack didn’t accomplish anything. None of the cells were breached. No equipment was stolen. Decepticon losses were minimal. It looks as though a passing Autobot unit with munitions to spare decided to cook off a few rounds in our direction—blow off some steam and cause us some damage.” Skids dimmed his optics and moaned in appreciation at the Commandant’s touch. The Commandant’s mouth went dry as he watched Skids open his legs a little wider. 

“Go on,” the Commandant encouraged, refusing to exploit his easier access to Skids’s inner thighs until his engineer told him something he didn’t already know. It was surprisingly difficult. Part of the Commandant wanted to enjoy his engineer _now_. But Skids was so beautiful trembling under the Commandant’s touch. There was an entirely different pleasure that came from exploiting his power to make his engineer have to wait, and want so keenly while he waited. That pleasure was worth the pain of his own wanting. 

“Autobot Recon forces are deliberately trained to make their probes look like hit-and-run attacks,” Skids stammered. He wriggled, as though feeling the first pangs of guilt, but he spoke anyway. “The first strike is simply to gather intelligence that’s then used to plan the real assault.” 

The Commandant trailed his fingers along Skids’s inner left thigh. “ _Do_ continue.” 

Skids’s quick intake of breath told the Commandant all he needed to know. The Decepticon barely swallowed his chuckle. 

Skids tensed, exhaled slowly, and continued. “Autobot tacticians would have already drafted a battle plan. The recon assault gathers informations for revisions before launch. Are there as many Decepticon guards as they thought? Are they well trained? Are they well armed? How quick is their response time? How strong are the walls? They want to know if there’s anything in the battle plan that needs to be changed.” Skids mewled, writhed, and the Commandant had mercy—he went back to rubbing Skids’s panel. Skids continued in a rush. “The Autobots might have come across a blueprint of the prison, or drawn one based on best guesses.” Then Skids gasped, panting his appreciation of the Commandant’s touch. 

The Commandant let his fingers trail to Skids’s right inner thigh. “And they want to confirm the accuracy of their maps?” 

Skids whimpered. He clearly wanted the Commandant’s touch on his panel, but the Commandant wouldn’t give in. Skids knew how to get what he desired, though, and he spilled his next words in a rush, racing to get the Commandant’s hand back where he wanted it. “The attack might be a cover for electronic warfare.” 

“Oh?” The Commandant tapped his fingers on Skids’s panel, listening to him moan. He was learning to play his engineer like a very fine instrument. “You mean planting bugs and cameras?”   
“Yeah, you should check for those, but…. _oh!_ Oh, like _that_ …I mean you should check to see who accessed our computer system. If a certain password was used, but the password’s owner wasn’t in the area where the log in took place, then it could be an Autobot using that password. Check if anything was downloaded—or uploaded—during the attack. Check the cameras for the _other_ parts of the prison, in case the attack was a diversion. If I were a gambler… _oh, yeah! Yes…_ If I were a gambler, I’d say this attack was meant to gather information. The Autobots will take what they learned, refine their battle plan, and come back in force.” Skids swallowed. “You’ve got to be ready.” 

“Find where the Autobots went, what they did, what they saw. Puzzle out what information they might have gathered. Theorize how they might adapt their battle plan in response to that information. And then revise Grindcore’s defenses to protect against the most likely threats,” the Commandant summarized. 

“Yes,” Skids agreed. 

The Commandant had no words for what he felt. Pleased? Yes, of course, but also _touched_. He’d hoped that he could convince Skids to be compliant with his wishes, but he never thought that Skids would volunteer such a thoughtful analysis of Autobot behaviour. Now the Commandant knew exactly what to do to combat the threat and ensure Megatron remained pleased with him. 

_He’s helping you of his own free will._

_He wants to please you the way you want to please Megatron._

The Commandant’s very spark felt warm at the realization. 

There was, of course, only one proper way to show his appreciation. The Commandant leaned forward and rested his finger on the release catch of Skids’s valve panel. “I think it’s time we opened this, don’t you?” 

Skids gasped and nodded vigorously. 

The Commandant popped the hatch. 

Skids’s anterior node was already swollen with arousal and the restrained stimulation it had received through the panel. His valve lips were sweetly polished and slightly puffy. As the Commandant slid his finger between them, he felt the first hints of gathering moisture. The Commandant pressed gently, and his finger sank deep into Skids’s welcoming valve. 

Skids arched his back, resting his head on the Commandant’s tracked shoulder, and made a sound of pure appreciation. 

The Commandant withdrew his finger, and Skids gasped and tensed, but when the Commandant played his wet finger over Skids’s node, the engineer relaxed, his hips pumping gently, his whole frame limp. “Oh, sir. Commandant. Sir,” he babbled. 

“Is this good, Skids?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You like it.” 

“I love it.” Skids dimmed his optics. “But don’t you want me to do something for you?” 

“I want you to overload for me.” The Commandant smiled under his mask, and for the first time he wished Skids could see it. “I love to watch you come,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful.” 

Much as he’d enjoyed having Skids’s tight little valve wrap around his spike—and it was tight, he’d been very careful, he’d stretched Skids’s calipers just enough that Skids would feel more pleasure than pain from being penetrated by his spike—much as he loved the way it felt, what he loved most was seeing Skids _want_ him. Hearing Skids cry out for him. Knowing that Skids would hurt if he took away his touch; knowing that Skids would beg without shame if only he could have it back. _Proving_ that he was the center of Skids’s universe. 

Skids moaned and surrendered to the Commandant’s touch. 

The Commandant wondered if he could manage two things at once. He lay the index and middle finger of his right hand on Skids’s anterior node, the way he would place them on the strings of an instrument. The index finger of his left hand slid between Skids’s valve lips. He pushed the left index finger slowly inside as the fingers of his right hand began to move ever so gently back and forth. 

“My _Master_ ,” Skids gasped, and then he lost his words, resorting to inarticulate mewls to express his pleasure. 

“Sing for me,” the Commandant murmured, pressing a little harder on Skids’s node. 

Skids did. His hips pumped, driving the Commandant’s finger in and out of his valve. The Commandant smiled and pressed the third finger of his left hand against the second, wondering if Skids could take that, too. 

He could. Oh, he could. 

And all the while, the Commandant massaged his node. 

Skids spread his legs wide. His head leaned back; his mouth hung slack. The Commandant wished he had a mirror in his office so he could see the two of them together. 

He would get one. Perhaps _several._

He thought it had been erotic to watch Skids overload on the surveillance cameras, but that had been nothing compared to how exciting it was to feel his engineer climax under his skilful touch. 


	46. Distinction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Tarn gets far more than he bargained for.

Skids rallied quickly after his overload. 

The Commandant leaned back on the couch, holding his engineer on his lap, forcing himself to rein in his own excitement and savour the moment. Pleasure was better when deferred, Skids needed some rest and the Commandant had ever so many fantasies to entertain himself in the meantime. 

What should he do with Skids first? Sitting in the oil bath, his engineer on his lap. Setting up a mirror on his wall so Skids could watch while they interfaced—so Skids could see his own expressions as he gloried in the experience of getting fragged. Feeding Skids fine treats, letting his engineer eat out of his hand, lick his palm, suck on his fingers… 

Skids shifted on his lap. Before the Commandant could protest, his clever engineer was on his feet, turning to face him… 

….and dropping to his knees. Skids’s aft nudged the table behind him. The Commandant raised an optic ridge. 

“Sir?” Skids inquired as he laid his hands on the Commandant’s upper thighs. “May I?” 

For a moment the Commandant felt confused. But when Skids leaned forward and kissed the panel over the Commandant’s spike, his engineer’s meaning became crystal clear. 

The Commandant was taken aback. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t _interested_ , but… Well, he’d never done _that_ before. 

How was he supposed to spike his sweet little engineer after he’d overloaded down Skids’s throat? And there was something terribly dirty about the whole act, wasn’t there? 

_Isn’t this the sort of thing that I should need to order Skids to do?_

But no, here was Skids, eager to suck his spike all of his own volition, and before the Commandant could even begin to parse the proper response to this situation, his spike panel snapped open of its own accord. 

Well, it _was_ an erotic thought, the idea of Skids’s lips parting around his spike. 

A second later, that thought became a reality. 

The Commandant gasped and clawed at his couch, seeking some kind of anchor. His right hand clung to the arm of the couch. His left hand gouged the cushion beside him. He could feel the fabric parting under his fingertips. 

Skids took the Commandant’s spike deep into his mouth and sucked. The Commandant couldn’t tear his gaze away. 

It wasn’t like interface at all. The suction, for one. And Skids’s tongue. There were no tongues inside valves, doing indecent things, lasciviously licking his spike…. 

When Skids’s tongue played with the tip of his spike, the Commandant almost overloaded on the spot. 

The Commandant dug his fingers hard into his couch, trying desperately not to overload. “Skids!” he hissed. 

Skids looked up, somehow the picture of innocence despite the fact that he held the Commandant’s spike between his lips. 

“Slowly,” the Commandant instructed, but his voice wavered. Had Skids noticed how he’d shaken his Master? 

Skids merely nodded, and the Commandant felt his spike bob with the motion of his engineer’s head. 

The Commandant groaned. He really wasn’t ready for this. 

He should have taken control and ordered Skids to kiss him there—just kiss his spike, nothing more than that. Just a whisper of his lips. Then Skids should turn around and bend over to receive it. Perhaps after a week or so enjoying that kind of play, the Commandant could consider allowing Skids to lick his spike. Even better, make Skids _beg_ to lick his spike. Taking his spike in his mouth would come later. Sucking on it, later still. The Commadant should have made Skids work his way up to….to _this_. 

Well, it was too late now. The Commandant had no way to stop Skids without admitting, by actions if not by words, that he had precious little experience with this sort of thing. And if Skids thought for an instant that his Master was not in complete control, then the metaphorical chains that held his engineer in bonds would dissolve link-by-link, and leave the Commandant with an enemy in his berth. 

Skids sucked gently on the Commandant’s spike. 

The Commandant threw back his head and gritted his teeth. It felt good, yes, but the pleasure was almost ruined by the all-consuming effort it took to restrain himself from overloading. The Commandant did not dare look as Skids busied himself with his treat of choice. He didn’t even dare _imagine_ what Skids must look like, or what Skids might do next. 

Even savouring the sensation was too much of a risk. The Commandant of Grindcore dredged deep inside his memories for something, anything, upsetting enough to stave off an overload. He dug down deep enough to recall being Glitch, that loathsome little gremlin with the blank dot for a face who ruined everything he touched, but even then he couldn’t stop his systems from crackling with charge. 

Because Skids had been Glitch’s roommate at the Outliers Academy. 

How _often_ had Glitch come home to find a range target taped to the door—Skids’s sign that he was interfacing with someone inside, and Glitch needed to go somewhere else until Skids and his lover were done? Sometimes Glitch had to stay up half the night in the corner of the common room. And when Windcharger or Trailbreaker or Senator Shockwave or some random mech that Skids had picked up in a club finally left—and Glitch always had to see them, always had to listen to them coming down the corridor and see whoever Skids had chosen to warm his berth that wasn’t him—Glitch went back to a hab that still smelled of interface and curled up on his recharge slab and fell asleep wondering what it would feel like if Skids ever put that target on the door while Glitch was in the room. 

The idea that he finally had Skids eagerly sucking his spike wasn’t doing a damned thing for his self-control. Glitch could never have imagined the Commandant’s current reality. Retribution, it turned out, was one hell of an aphrodisiac. 

The Commandant wrenched his thoughts away from his history and focused instead on the most sickening thing he’d ever seen, which had to have been the very first time he’d used Grindcore’s big smelter. Before he’d learned enough to drown out the screaming with music. He still heard it in his dreams. He wondered if he could frag Skids hard enough tonight that he could recharge without dreaming. 

He thought about what he’d seen, forcing the horrific images into his brain even as Skids’s actions ravaged his systems with pleasure. The most awful. The most wonderful. Revulsion and desire. Hell and heaven. Pride and loathing. The Commandant abandoned himself to torment on both sides until the distinction between them lost all meaning. 


End file.
